His eyes swept the company, and fell upon Melusine with a glare. His head was small and bullet-shaped, and he did not wear a wig, but had his sleek black hair cut off closely round his temples. A chill ran through his frame, and, grasping the heavy weapon with which chance had provided him, prepared to strike down the first person who should enter the cell. His literary instincts were reviving. The both of them puttering about the tidy two-story house, Lucy would serve them both steaming cups of tea in the front parlor. The blood temporarily halted to her brain, Michelle slept peacefully again.
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