But I was sorry for poor Jack—as I am still, and hoped he would mend. He was content to talk about himself, though in the back of his clever mind he already suspected that she was not offering any details about her life. His countenance was almost as white and rigid as that of the corpse by his side. It was a neat, efficient-looking room, with a writing-table placed with a business-like regard to the window, and a bookcase surmounted by a pig’s skull, a dissected frog in a sealed bottle, and a pile of shiny, black-covered note-books. The boy doesn't know it, but I dug into his trunk for something to identify him and stumbled upon some manuscripts. His eyes on Melusine, he uncocked the pistol, and then reached out to the portrait, grasping it by one edge.
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