It was one of those old sliding trap affairs, narrow and steep of descent. “But, of course, she may have come from one of the other flats. “Anna,” she cried, “you must believe me. “That’s the point. You are in danger. While the cloth was laid, the host and Thames descended to the cellar, whence they returned, laden with a number of flasks of the same form, and apparently destined to the same use as those depicted in Hogarth's delectable print—the Modern Midnight Conversation. The tears flowed faster. She imagined descending the stairs, hearing Mike’s uproarious laughter as she peeked around a vacant corner with a lump in her throat.
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