"Stop a minute," cried Jack, detaining his mistresses. He was always word-building, a metaphorist, lavish with singing adjectives; but often he built in confusion because it was difficult to describe something beautiful in a new yet simple way. She posed herself before her mirror and surveyed herself with gravely thoughtful, gravely critical, and yet admiring eyes. His eyes on Melusine, he uncocked the pistol, and then reached out to the portrait, grasping it by one edge. She had better escape if she can.
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