Jane was a smoldering auburn-haired Irish beauty who seldom spoke to anyone. I’ve got no feminine class feeling. The man who staggers, whose face is flushed, whose attitude is either noisily friendly or truculent, has some chance; liquor bends him eventually. Through yet another doorway she observed an ancient silk brocade loom. And, with a glance of malignant exultation, he quitted the vault, and locked the door.
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