"You'd better surrender quietly, Jack," he cried; "you've no chance. But Melusine had overcome the weakness, calling the loss but a temporary setback. The lamp was spreading soot over everything and the reek of kerosene was stronger than usual. “Does it hurt?” Michelle asked. Melusine ripped strips off her under-petticoats and fashioned a pad, which she bandaged as tightly as she could over the wound, working swiftly, unperturbed by the gore. It was open.
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