‘You don’t mean to say she’s here?’ ‘Was,’ Gerald corrected. She seized the key, and he grasped her hand and squeezed it roughly and painfully between the handle and the ward as she tried to turn it. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. She pointed suddenly at the portrait.
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