It was noon when the caravan reached the tower of the water-clock. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. Her voice seemed to come from a long way off. He was certain that those lips of hers had never known the natural and pardonable simper of youth. Come with me to the Condemned Hold directly, and, if I find my fears confirmed, I'll—" He was here interrupted by the sudden entrance of the black, who rushed precipitately into the room, letting fall the heavy bunch of keys in his fright.
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