"Fool!" he cried, "do you think I wouldn't have secured you before this if I hadn't some motive for my forbearance?" "And that motive is fear," replied Jack contemptuously. Jack had brought away the bunch of keys which he had taken from Quilt Arnold, but, none of them would open it. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. There were dark rims under her eyes, soft now with unshed tears. Yes, very well. So long as she stood beside him, the Hand would not prevail.
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