‘Good God!’ uttered Roding. Melusine was silent, revolving this outcome in her mind as she stared at Roding, who was frowning at her in a puzzled way. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. ’ ‘Eh bien, it is your fault entirely in this case. I was forced to lay on a bed of nails for three days. .
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