He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. Then he was surrounded by black-clad nuns, and Melusine felt an unknown hand grab away her own sword. Her name, he said, was as pretty as its wearer.
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