Forgetting the dark thoughts of his last brush with the girl, he dropped the dagger back in his pocket, quickened his pace, and went back into the house to look for his hostess. I have been stupid and foolish. He could remember when women laid away their gowns in lavender—as this girl's mother had. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. She knew Martha would not ask anything that she did not wish to know. I believe so because the 220 stories say his head was cut off by a tribe of witches and yet it still remained alive for many years after his decapitation. ‘Jacques!’ Melusine dropped to her haunches beside his inert form, feeling for the wound.
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