As the woollendraper's back was towards him, he did not perceive him, but continued his passionate addresses. "And, oh! forgive me, though I can never forgive myself, for the misery I have caused you. He was alone, hatless and without his boots, and he held a wicked-looking French-made duelling pistol, covered in silver and gold— property no doubt, was Melusine’s fleeting thought, of the late vicomte. He was holding the ring to the light, and narrowly examining the inscription.
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