The sky beyond was a surreal color of pink that reminded her of the windows she had once been entranced by at the castle chapel, their leaden lines depicting old religious stories and sufferings. —'They can't, I tell you,' says I, in a bit of a passion; 'it's unconstitutional. Bravo!—the best cly-faker of 'em all couldn't have done it better. She was dressed in one of those complicated dresses that are all lace and work and confused patternings of black and purple and cream about the body, and she was in many ways a younger feminine version of the same theme as himself. She became aware that at regular intervals a light flashed upon her face and a bodiless eye regarded her, and this, as the night wore on, became a torment. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly.
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