“Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. This was not the sort of confession which he had been expecting. Something seemed to dredge up from the recesses of her memory and she brightened. The fragrance of dryer sheets lay upon her like the snow that now drifted peacefully outside. She tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat. Melusine did not attempt to speak. " "Let them attempt it, if they dare!" cried Mrs. .
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