Ascending the stairs, and conducting them along a sombre gallery, in which Trenchard noticed that every door was painted black, and numbered, he stopped at the entrance of a chamber; and, selecting a key from the bunch at his girdle, unlocked it. His ideas about girls and women were of a sentimental and modest quality; they were creatures, he thought, either too bad for a modern vocabulary, and then frequently most undesirably desirable, or too pure and good for life. “I have answered all your questions,” she said. He took her hands firmly in his and raised them to his lips. He looked from the sword to the dagger with which he had brought her down here, and grimaced. It was enough.
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