Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. Melusine stepped back a pace, her gaze fixed on the vision before her. ’ ‘Not until you release that dagger. . . “Slavery! Downtroddenness! When I think of it I feel all over boot marks— men’s boots. ” The cabman, knocking with the butt end of his whip upon the window, reminded her that he was in a similar predicament.
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