It is not, my dear Veronica, that I think there is any harm in you; there is not. ‘Move, you. Wood, with a message for Lady Trafford. For some seconds of voluminous thinking they looked at the ring between them, and neither spoke. All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. But she could tell by the dullness of his eyes that he saw only some inner vision.
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