For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. "For my part, I don't think you ever quite got over the accident you met with on the night of the Great Storm. You have said a thousand times that there was no shame in you. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. ‘She is constantly thinking of you,’ I said. The sun lingered, finally dropping beyond the dark canopy of pine trees at the edge of the park. . “You must play for us again sometime. The day was so darkly overcast that she had to turn on the small white porcelain lamp that sat upon the makeup crowded vanity. When she awoke from a pleasant dream an hour later, she was shocked to find herself restrained in a bed that was not hers and not the inn’s. I want my freedom. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all.
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