He heard Melusine cry out, but his attention was all for the nick he had made in her neck. The blinds were all drawn, the sunlight kept out, one could not tell what colors these gray swathings hid. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. Without turning or looking in his direction she leaned forwards, her head supported upon her fingers, her elbows upon her knees.
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