Hearing the noise of the scuffle, the tapstress, fancying it was Jack making an effort to escape, in spite of the remonstrances of the executioner, threw open the wicket. “Very likely. This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. His mind was filled briefly with psychic images of a charnel house that danced like a spider in his head.
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