"Si—lence!" vociferated Charcam, laying great emphasis on the last syllable. “I’ll go,” she vowed to the night, “or I’ll die!” She made plans and estimated means and resources. It creaked slightly. “I will have your true reason. A forgotten island beyond the ship lanes, where that grim Hand would falter and move blindly in its search for him! From what he had read, there wouldn't be much to do; and in the idle hours he could write. But this is like—like walking round a house that looks square and complete and finding an unexpected long wing running out behind. It was a castoff of Shari’s from her brief obsession with sewing.
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