It was grated and crested with spikes, like that he had just burst open, and thinking it a needless waste of time to force it, he broke off one of the spikes, which he carried with him for further purposes, and then climbed over it. "But don't wait for me, Sir Cecil. Yet she held her tongue. Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles. The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. It never is.
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