Sated, he rolled off her body and retired to his quarters. He could have easily forced it, but preferred a more expeditious mode of reaching the roof which suggested itself to him. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. ‘Oh, my God, she’s gone!’ Wrenching his hand from his friend’s slackened grasp, he darted for the door, Roding behind him. “You don’t know him, Anna,” she said with a little shudder, “or you would not talk like that. Mother? Suzanne Valade, her mother? With deliberation, he spoke.
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