In a moment his grasp grew weaker. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. In Darrell's open features, frankness and honour were written in legible characters; while, in Jack's physiognomy, cunning and knavery were as strongly imprinted. "Your son," replied Jack,—"your miserable, repentant son. A faint gleam of returning colour gave her at once a more natural appearance. ‘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. He seemed to stay away from her because she was so cold and formal towards him, addressing him as Mister McCloskey as if she were an Irish maid. He forgot for the moment his own self-pity, the egotism of his own passionate love.
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