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Her complexion had resisted the snow-glare wonderfully; her skin had only deepened its natural warmth a little under the Alpine sun. In this screen, which masked the entrance of a dark passage communicating with the Condemned Hold, about five feet from the ground, was a hatch, protected by long spikes set six inches apart, and each of the thickness of an elephant's tusk. Brendon’s had an awful stroke of luck. She raised this with the air of a conspirator unmasking, and displayed a tear-flushed face. "But don't wait for me, Sir Cecil.
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