Gosse sagged under the impact, knocking over the card table, and falling to sit, half stunned, the discharged pistol flying from his slackened grasp. A dozen words, and he saw Enschede as clearly as though he stood hard by in the flesh. What he needed was not a food but a flavour; and the cocoanut taste of the chestnuts soothed his burning tongue and throat. ‘You will not, pig,’ cried Melusine.
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