Melusine ripped at the buttons of the garment, dragging it open and away, and gasped at the massive red stain on his shirt. ‘Do you not understand that I can trust no one—no one?’ ‘That is a pity,’ Gerald said, rising to face her. His fellow-prisoners nicknamed him the gallows-provider, from a habit he had of picking out all those who were destined to the gibbet. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery.
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