And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. "He will be murdered!—Help!" "My child!—my love!" cried Wood, dragging her forcibly back. I'm one of those unfortunate duffers who have too much imagination—the kind who build their own chimeras and then run away from them.
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