‘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. A stout wooden shutter, opening inwardly, being removed, disclosed a grating of iron bars. He tried this sentence with expletives.
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