She did not see the metal pole swing toward the back of her skull, nor did she feel her own blood spoiling her light hair after the dull crack of metal broke her flesh. Melusine glanced at the walls as she sped down the four flights of stairs, and noted with relief that some paintings remained. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone.
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