Several men and women were piled there like wood, dead, horribly gored. But she found an unknown lady’s discarded garments, and selected some of those that she tried on, sending Kimble off down the secret passage to load them onto the horse she had borrowed—unbeknownst to its owner—from Father Saint-Simon. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. Without a word, without a sign, Enschede started toward the beach, where his proa waited.
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