Swiftly following the sound of knocking, she crossed right and passed through a door near the windows—and found herself in the bookroom. ‘Because I’m a female,’ declared Lucilla unanswerably. “I fail to see the joke,” Sir John said. The spikes almost touched the upper part of the hatch: scarcely space enough for the passage of a hand being left between their points and the beam. Perhaps she was. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach.
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