’ ‘Yolande, my maid?’ ‘You don’t need a maid,’ Martha said stoutly. Melusine ripped strips off her under-petticoats and fashioned a pad, which she bandaged as tightly as she could over the wound, working swiftly, unperturbed by the gore. “You see the pointer?” he asked. She watched the people and hummed softly to herself. The storm burst upon them in its fury. ’ ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Miss Froxfield frostily.
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