She flew up from her stool and faced the door. Mother? Suzanne Valade, her mother? With deliberation, he spoke. He was alone, hatless and without his boots, and he held a wicked-looking French-made duelling pistol, covered in silver and gold— property no doubt, was Melusine’s fleeting thought, of the late vicomte. She is in the hall now.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDE4LjIyMy40My4xMjIgLSAwMi0wNy0yMDI0IDIzOjUyOjM1IC0gMTM3MDMzOTY0
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