He tried to speak-once, twice; at the third attempt he succeeded. He said to Ricori hoarsely, in
strangled voice:
"Kill her…or I will-" Ricori did not move. He stood rigid, automatic pointed at the doll-maker's heart,
eyes fixed on her dancing hands. He did not seem to hear McCann, or if he heard, he did not heed. The
doll-maker's song went on…it was like the hum of bees…it was a sweet droning…it garnered sleep as the
bees garner honey…sleep…
Ricori shifted his grip upon his gun. He sprang forward. He swung the butt of the pistol down upon a
wrist of the doll-maker.
The hand dropped, the fingers of that hand writhed…hideously the long white fingers writhed and
twisted…like serpents whose backs have been broken…