Ennison listened, and his eyes glowed. She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. "The door!—the door!—death!" he added, as he tried the handle, "it is locked—and I am unarmed. As she danced there was in her ears the faded echo of wooden tom-toms. Not very long, if you want to get well.
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