She had just managed to reach it, grabbing for the handle, when the enemy’s cracked command halted her. The door to the room in question was closed. ‘Do you not understand that I can trust no one—no one?’ ‘That is a pity,’ Gerald said, rising to face her. Full as she was of him, it felt good to shower her kill out of her hair. ***** From the comatose state, Spurlock passed into that of the babbling fever; but that guarding instinct which is called subconsciousness held a stout leash on his secret.
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