There was still the pity of understanding in Ruth's eyes. “You would be wise to loosen your purse-strings, Gianfrancesco. Her faithful servant struggled, with her assistance, to rise. ’ The dagger was in her hand. Melusine was unable to repulse him—even had she tried. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. Both, perhaps?’ At that, her eyes darkened with fury.
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