On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. I didn't think. But in a moment, it was tucked under his arm and, raising the pistol again, he gestured towards the door opposite the one where Melusine stood. He reached out a hand gropingly, sagged, and toppled out of the chair to the floor, where he lay very still. " "That's impossible," replied Jack. “Damned Rascal!” he said.
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