She tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. Still, something had marked the face, something had left an indelible touch. ‘Melusine, if you don’t let go my hand—’ He broke off as she dragged a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve.
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