“Don’t you understand, Nigel,” she said softly, “that it was precisely for this I have worked so hard. She did not open the Bible but laid it on the edge of the bed, knelt and rested her forehead upon the worn leather cover. ‘Jacques? You have done it? He is alive?’ ‘Oh, he’s alive, all right,’ confirmed the sergeant, putting the petrified Pottiswick—stockstill and staring in horror at the dagger—firmly out of his way and taking his place before Melusine.
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