If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. Do you know the story of Orpheus? He was a musician who followed his damned wife into Hell to bring her back? He was one of us, I believe. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. The night was now advancing, and the party began to think of separating. " "As you please, Sir," replied the tapstress, coolly. ‘Seems quiet enough,’ observed the junior officer, his gaze raking the shuttered windows of the building’s grey stone frontage. The third time she escaped she reached the inconsequent barricade of the overturned table. Maggot.
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