But there was only Gosse, still struggling with the picture, looking dazedly towards Melusine and the lad he had shot, then away towards the sounds of pursuit, and back again. He looked at her for a moment in a puzzled sort of way. In the heart of the jungle the dog had his private muck baths. ‘Lord,’ Gerald uttered, his inexplicable annoyance evaporating. ‘I’ll wager that militiaman never rode the animal, then.
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