CHAPTER XXI McClintock's island was twelve miles long and eight miles wide, with the shape of an oyster. ‘Jacques? You have done it? He is alive?’ ‘Oh, he’s alive, all right,’ confirmed the sergeant, putting the petrified Pottiswick—stockstill and staring in horror at the dagger—firmly out of his way and taking his place before Melusine. It had ceased raining, but the atmosphere was moist and chill, and the ground deluged by the recent showers.
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