In each corner stood a stout square post reaching to the ceiling. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. ” “You have her face and figure,” he muttered. Ennison’s manner was certainly not one of a willing host. His eyes on Melusine, he uncocked the pistol, and then reached out to the portrait, grasping it by one edge.
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