The following morning found him in the doctor's waiting room, a black cigar turning unlighted in his teeth. Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. He moaned in excitement as his lips wrapped around the peak of her right breast. “I wonder if they will seem altered,” she remarked for the third time. Balked, Melusine halted. “What do you think of that?” he asked. He walked hastily to the side of the broad pavement and summoned a fiacre. Her head dangled unnaturally for an instant, unleashed from its moorings, then sank to join her husband’s on the floor.
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