She drank and drank until his body was a lifeless husk, as light as a mannequin, virtually hollow of all but the fluid in his bones. Uttering a faint scream, she sank backwards, and would have fallen, if it had not been for the interposition of Blueskin, who, at that moment, staggered into the room with a candle in one hand, and the bottle in the other. Marvel, therefore, remained on his probation. Then, mysteriously, he no longer smelled or tasted it. He seldom spoke, and drank with a persistence that was sinister.
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