‘Silence,’ he warned again, with a prod of the dagger at her heart. “Thousands! Ugh! And found it a worse slavery. Melusine turned and turned, unable to imagine just where the secret door could be. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him.
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