‘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. “I thank you for your advice,” she said. Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn.
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