’ ‘Well, I am glad he did not,’ intervened Lucilla, forestalling another withering comment from the captain. For Melusine was on him again, the point of her sword lunging so that he backed up onto the dais. She pulled the trigger. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. "You are my prisoner, Jack. She was ushered into the back of the squad car.
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