She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. The room in which this interview took place had a sordid and miserable look. I thought he was in Newgate. His eyes were fixed upon her face, but he opened his lips twice before he spoke. “Sebastianus? Where did my husband go?” He smiled at her gently, patronizingly, as he prevented her from movement or escape. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation.
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