Recovering herself, Melusine tucked the weapons out of sight, down into the deep holsters hidden under the petticoat of her riding habit, and went back into the house where Martha awaited her in some impatience. At a little after five, on that day, four horses dashed round the corner of the Old Bailey, and drew up before the door of the Lodge. It was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage’s orders, and waited with an appearance of affection. ‘Pig, miss?’ ‘The one who calls himself Valade, idiot,’ snapped Melusine impatiently.
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