The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. ‘Go you through the passage and find the other door. It was not possible for him to have been deceived. But—it’s one of the things I’ve just been thinking over.
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