And the less “anything” happened the better. His eyes on Melusine, he uncocked the pistol, and then reached out to the portrait, grasping it by one edge. She drifted back into the welcoming arms of sleep, feeling herself surrounded in silk. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. He drew compellingly upon his new characters to keep him out of this melancholy channel; but they ebbed and ebbed; he could not hold them. Fretting and fidgeting, he had, after an hour or so, turned to McClintock. "We shall all be murdered.
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