Before her was a great Gothic portal. The thin stream of blood on which her eyes were fastened with a nameless horror reached almost to her feet. ‘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. "Are you my son? Are you Jack?" "I am," replied Jack.
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