I have yet another. The monster, Wild, when he visited my dungeon last night, told me, to add to my misery, that she occupied a cell near me. Here one might live the life of golden days. 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. What right had she to call herself “Alcide”? It was abominable, an imposture.
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