’ ‘And your precious vicomte didn’t wish for the English one,’ said Charvill, acid in his voice. A small handgun bobbed at the end of it, aimed at Sheila. Her voice was soft and singularly musical; but from time to time she uttered old-fashioned words which forced him to grope mentally. When she slipped off of it her head started to bob, filled with air. Next moment, she had shut the bookshelf panel upon him. “You too sing?” he asked.
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