‘Will you—what was it?—“blow off his head”?’ Melusine eyed her, a little uncertain. Holding down the light, he perceived that the wounded man had risen to the surface, and was trying to clamber up the slippery sides of the well. I am really in earnest. Instinct had forced her to create something out of rags to satisfy a mysterious craving. “Go down and rescue the rags of my reputation,” she said, smiling.
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