A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. He was leaning against a window frame, his hat in his hand. ‘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.
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