Boris, larger and
nobler even than most of his breed, paced behind him. Then came I, a
slim blonde woman, with fair hair powdered, in a dress a century
old.
The passage wasn't quite six feet high, and so still that you
could hear the beating of your heart. Achmet's slippers went
_scuf-scuf-scuf_. Boris swayed from side to side, his tongue
lolling, his eyes phosphorescent. He resembled those ghost-hounds
of old stories, terrific beasts that follow the Wild Huntsman.
We went down some steps. I shouldn't have been surprised had I found
myself climbing the beanstalk after Jack. Dazedly I thought: "I'll
wake up in the morning and tell them at the breakfast-table what a
wonderful dream I had." I could fancy the Lady with the Soul
clasping her hands, and The Author crinkling his eyes, and Alicia
laughing.
This last passage, which, I learned afterward, ran under the
carriage house, presently crooked like an elbow and led us into a
windowless and stone-floored little room, under the cellar. On the
opposite side of the room was the opening of another such passage,
with stone steps leading to it. On these steps sat Nicholas Jelnik.
He got to his feet and stood looking at me.
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