In this screen, which masked the entrance of a dark passage communicating with the Condemned Hold, about five feet from the ground, was a hatch, protected by long spikes set six inches apart, and each of the thickness of an elephant's tusk. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. Spurlock sat limply, his arms hanging. Then pain entered their depths. Only how had they missed him? Were they imbecile? Or perhaps the mists had concealed him from them.
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