She patted John's head with her palm, its surface appealingly fuzzy. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. It appeared from what he said that he had been captured when asleep,—that his liquor had been drugged,—otherwise, he would never have allowed himself to be taken alive. It was fastened inside. ‘Oh, my God, she’s gone!’ Wrenching his hand from his friend’s slackened grasp, he darted for the door, Roding behind him.
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