She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. Jack had brought away the bunch of keys which he had taken from Quilt Arnold, but, none of them would open it. She had seen a man’s head steal out for a moment and draw the curtains a little closer.
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