The lips of the mask twisted upward into a smile. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. Not much to his surprise, Jack Kimble shook his head. I'll wait here. “Where am I?” he muttered.
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