Capes looked at one and not over one, spoke to one, treated one as a visible concrete fact. ” She turned and fitted the latchkey into the door. Montague Hill?” Annabel put her hand suddenly to her throat and steadied herself with the back of a chair. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate. She brought her face to his chest, turning her head sideways so he would not notice her elongated canines. Lucy entered and Mike followed. Will you read to me? I am tired; and the sound of your voice makes me drowsy.
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