The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. Upon the pavement near the court lay the porter, who had been prostrated by a blow from the butt-end of a pistol. "Another such attempt," said the latter, "and you are a dead man. The executioner shook his head. ‘What in God’s name is going on?’ Glancing swiftly towards the doorway, Gerald saw his friend’s disbelieving face and burst out, speaking over the top of Melusine as she made another grab for the little square of linen.
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