A creeping numbness invaded her. It was wrenched away from Melusine’s clutching hands. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. He was twenty-nine at the time, practically an old man. The work of plunder over, that of destruction commenced. She said she hoped she had not distressed him by the course she had felt obliged to take, and he told her not to be a fool.
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