. . He seemed inexorable, and inscrutable as fate itself. Without whisky," went on McClintock, "your irritability is beyond tolerance. He heard Melusine cry out, but his attention was all for the nick he had made in her neck. Wearied at length with thinking on the past, and terrified by the prospect of the future, he threw himself on the straw with which the cage was littered, and endeavoured to compose himself to slumber.
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