Whisky kills him suddenly; it does not sap him gradually. ’ Abruptly, the niggling doubt that had been plaguing Lord Charvill came sweeping to the surface. He meant to take her out of this room, perhaps even out of the house. A beachcomber in embryo, and she had lent a hand through habit as much as through pity. She fought the inclination for a while, then surrendered. ‘Will you—what was it?—“blow off his head”?’ Melusine eyed her, a little uncertain.
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