He was a stranger. She moved forward almost indiscernibly, a millimeter. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. He pressed his lips to her with a much greater force than she had anticipated. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. "But we must be getting along if we are to lunch in the tower of the water-clock. ‘It is all the fault of that lantern. One glance swept across the place and it was immediately apparent that Pottiswick had not, this time, been mistaken.
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