“I am afraid,” she said, “that he must have a skeleton key to these rooms. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. Personally, however, I doubt if—’ ‘Charvill?’ interrupted Gerald without ceremony, all his senses at once on the alert. He stood completely still as she moved her tongue up and down its shaft. The Night-Cellar. And it had not shocked her! It was this appalling absence of indignation that had put terror into her heart. I've got an address here.
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