It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. It was a letter. She looked at me as though I were some unclean thing, as though my soul were weighted with every sin in the calendar. He began to tell me something—and stopped. She looked about and discovered a door partially hidden by shadow.
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