There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. Perhaps the boys had already faced off and he had missed it, he thought sourly. Some of the lunatics were rattling their chains; some shrieking; some singing; some beating with frantic violence against the doors. Ann Veronica looked up at him and found him regarding her with eyes that were almost woebegone, and into which, indeed, he was trying to throw much more expression than they could carry.
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