“Nigel, Nigel,” she cried. Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. McClintock, coming from below, saw them and went forward. They had got all this down already—they heard the substance of it now for the fourteenth time. She began to exercise those lures which were bred in her bone—the bones of all women. It was a night of storm and terror, which promised each moment to become more stormy and more terrible.
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