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And she seemed always to keep one eye on Ann Veronica’s dress. He was no Hoddy, but a tremendous man, with hairy arms and bearded face and drink-shattered intellect. ‘French? But what else?’ ‘I do not like Frenchmen,’ Melusine snapped. 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.
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