Melusine ripped strips off her under-petticoats and fashioned a pad, which she bandaged as tightly as she could over the wound, working swiftly, unperturbed by the gore. ‘He had run away with a Frenchwoman, you see, but Everett Charvill—I refer to the general—took care to conceal the matter. ‘Scream and you are dead,’ he snapped, and released her mouth so that he might open the door. “But your sister?” he asked.
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