The monster, Wild, when he visited my dungeon last night, told me, to add to my misery, that she occupied a cell near me. John’s best friend’s parents were to be out of town again, he reported. His complexion was pale; and there was something sinister in the expression of his large black eyes. “It is strange that we should have met Annabel,” she said. She’s naïve, and yet uncannily shrewd at times, and you daren’t rely on anything she says. Humph. That was odd: when young people were joyous, they had to express it physically. He had hired not one but two engineers to record the event, subsidized entirely out of his own meager pocket. And neither had any of that theatricality which demands gestures and facial expression. “It is a great art,” she said in broken English.
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