Be frank, I beg you, Miss Pellissier. Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. She hated to leave; for this hour would be the most interesting. "And who is this Van Gal—Gal—what's his outlandish name?" "Van Galgebrok," replied the widow. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. Melusine did not attempt to speak. She was looking about her, and her face was dark with anger.
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