As the Wastrel rushed, Spurlock sidestepped, swept the ball into his hand, set himself and threw it. Prudence twinkled at them, and reached out to pat Melusine’s hand. Her complexion had resisted the snow-glare wonderfully; her skin had only deepened its natural warmth a little under the Alpine sun. “I might return the compliment, Courtlaw,” he answered, “by asking why the devil you come lurching on to the pavement like a drunken man.
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