‘Something wrong, madame?’ Her fan came up swiftly, hiding the lower part of her face. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. ‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman. ‘Parbleu, the bullet is still inside you,’ Melusine guessed, remembering how the Mother Abbess had diagnosed Leonardo’s suffering when he had first come to the convent. Kneebone begged him to take the prisoner into the churchyard.
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