Stanley, at the door. Keeping hold of the doorhandle, she turned slowly. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. The lamp was spreading soot over everything and the reek of kerosene was stronger than usual. Here, Caliban, attend to the door, and keep the wicket locked till I return. We haven’t.
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