Pause. ‘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. He turned, expecting to see his wife. The acid of this incertitude had disintegrated his nerve; and in Canton had come the smash.
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