She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. She knew the truth of it all right. Oui, dans la note. Marina had retired to bed, drinking wine slowly, sleeping when she was not drinking. The lad hesitated. "The door!—the door!—death!" he added, as he tried the handle, "it is locked—and I am unarmed.
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