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Back up the stone passage! Back into the library! Irma Bunt back to her petit point, Blofeld back to his stance by the mantelpiece, his hand resting lightly on the boss of his great sword. It was just as if they had returned after taking part in some gracious after-dinner entertainment: a game of billiards, a look at the stamp albums, a dull quarter of an hour with the home movies. Bond decided: to hell with the Fukuoka miner! There was a writing-desk next to the bookshelves. He pulled out its chair and sat down. There were cigarettes and matches. He lit up and sat back, inhaling luxuriously. Might as well make oneself comfortable before one went for The Big Sleep! He tapped his ash on to the carpet and crossed one knee over the other.

'Satisfactory. All accounted for.'

'Never mind,' said Tracy, 'I'll make do with the zithers while you guzzle your beer and schnapps.' She turned in to the right-hand fork leading to the underpass for Kufstein, and they were at once through Rosenheim and the great white peaks were immediately ahead.珑牾/コ貣暈G?嗚顣U輈d┕)m儿TカH醅€戣5S呕m濛'侉+ }?樚p饽T叓摊狀kuY氿忹殎罴h夸s?寳[鏥锦?隩坬7&l 﨨b0薑媵??Z蟶盖雯櫡襤筫+2It took two hours, what with Captain Stonor's questions and men coming up from time to time to whisper hoarsely into his ear, and at the end of it I was exhausted. Coffee was brought and cigarettes for me ("Not while I'm on duty, thank you, Miss Michel"), and then we all relaxed and the stenographer was sent away. Captain Stonor sent for Lieutenant Morrow and took him aside to radio a preliminary report to headquarters, and I watched the wreck of the black sedan, that had by now been hauled up the cliff, being towed over the lawn to the road. There the ambulance was driven over beside it, and I turned away as a wet bundle was carefully lifted out onto the grass. Horror! I remembered again those cold, red-flecked eyes. I felt his hands on me. Could it have happened?

"Will the Press wear the story?" asked Bond dubiously.

Julia was unusually silent, but there was something in her manner more dangerous, if possible, than ever to Edmund’s right resolves. So true is it, that nothing can pass in the minds of those we love, without our knowing, at least, that there is something passing. And of what nature that something was, seemed in the present instance to be recognised, for he, too, became silent, yet, during that silence, both felt[292] a conviction of each other’s affection, stronger perhaps than any they had before known.