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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. But not a word to him of Lady Trafford's absence—mind that. She paused. And think things out. "Where is he?" asked Jonathan. ” “Oh, Drummond’s dinner!” she repeated. "Past noon," replied Blueskin. ‘It is not possible.
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