He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the uncertain light. 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. "Rowland, your violence is killing me," she returned, in a plaintive tone. "A hell of a muddle! But all the talk in the world can't undo it.
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