He got out in much the same way from the Gatehouse,—stole the keys, and passed through a room where I was sitting half-asleep in a chair. The lamp was not yet lit, and in the dim light he bent forward as though trying to look into her averted face. He was a little impressed by Ann Veronica’s metaphor of the string, which, indeed, she owed to Hetty Widgett. Mirrors. Her eyes where glassy and shining.
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