Brendon told him the name of a distant restaurant and sprang in by her side. She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. As the secret door opened, the sounds within the house came at once to her ears: the tramping of feet above, and the hoarse voices echoing through the mansion. In and out of consciousness she sailed, hearing voices from memory that she could not distinguish from reality. Melusine ripped at the buttons of the garment, dragging it open and away, and gasped at the massive red stain on his shirt.
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