” Lucy looked at the small shelf which was jammed with thick paperbacks by every major horror novelist of the twentieth century. I saw him last night at Jonathan Wild's, after my escape from the New Prison. And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—“Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights” in his company. ‘I have not asked for this trouble from anyone.
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