She slipped past the servants, her soft roe-skin shoes unheard on the old stone. “She can’t. Nor as I’ve to put up with a French spy in my parlour—’ ‘Peste, how you talk,’ interrupted Melusine impatiently, barely taking in his complaints. So here I am, king of all I survey, with a predilection for poker, a scorched liver, and a piano-player.
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