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‘Do you think I am afraid of a sword in the hand of a slip of a girl?’ For answer, Melusine lunged at him. His hands were exploring her once again in the car. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed.
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