He knocked his pipe on the teak rail. Niente. The door was too strong, and too well secured, to break open,—the walls too thick: but the ceiling,—if he could reach it—there, he doubted not, he could make an outlet. She had fled back to Florence quite intent on slitting the new bride’s throat. A pig, yes, a little. Then he could hear Hilary breathing beside him, and from outside the muted twittering of birds.
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