It proved to be a human head, though with scarcely a vestige of the features remaining. The agony on the sands now ceased to puzzle her. His eyes were red. Cheveney was looking after her, I think, then. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. ‘It looked to me as if he was playing games with Madame Valade,’ Lucilla said frankly. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended.
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