Some part of the stiff vigour of the man seemed to have subsided. Stanley allowed his paper to drop a little, and scrutinized the hats and brows of their three fellow-travellers. ‘Who in the name of heaven is this Leonardo? And why did he kiss you?’ ‘He was an Italian soldier, and he wanted to kiss me,’ Melusine said, goaded. Of all the entirely English women I know, you’re the only one with a French accent.
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