"What do you mean?" cried Winifred in alarm. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. This individual apparently met with some impediment to his further progress; for he had not proceeded many steps when he turned suddenly about, and darted up the passage in which Wood stood. Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V. “I believe that you are quite safe.
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