“Sebastianus? Where did my husband go?” He smiled at her gently, patronizingly, as he prevented her from movement or escape. Mr. Me, I have a question for you first. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. Now go. The visitor was the hotel manager, who respectfully announced that the doctor was ready for her. I dare say anything seemed better to her than the nun’s habit she had been obliged to use.
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