In this screen, which masked the entrance of a dark passage communicating with the Condemned Hold, about five feet from the ground, was a hatch, protected by long spikes set six inches apart, and each of the thickness of an elephant's tusk. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. Ruth obeyed, not willingly, but because there was something hypnotic in the authoritative tone. “Before I heard much Wagnerian music I heard enthusiastic descriptions of it from a mistress I didn’t like at school.
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