‘Whither away, mademoiselle?’ he said grimly, ungently grasping her arm above the elbow. ‘You!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue. . Some of the delicate colour which the afternoon walk had brought into her cheeks had already returned. Knives were worse, especially when you were stabbed back and left traces of your own blood at the crime scene.
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