‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, assuming a fearful accent. “Actually, I am, it is terribly stupid. I thought that he was dead. He seemed to be. It was common name, so I was thrown off the scent. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. Not that he deliberately courted danger; it was rather the searcher, seeking analysis, the why and wherefore of this or that invading emotion. On the same peg and evidently belonging to it was a black velvet Zouave jacket. The first circumstance that struck her on her arrival seemed ominous.
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