The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. They sat in the windowed booth at the restaurant across from each other. You don’t deserve it, but he does. ‘He had run away with a Frenchwoman, you see, but Everett Charvill—I refer to the general—took care to conceal the matter. And the bedchamber, for which Melusine instantly headed, was almost bright. .
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