See paragraph 1. His eyes looked a little bloodshot to her; his face had lost something of its ruddy freshness. She wrenched her head away from his grip and got her arm between his chest and hers. She had traversed perhaps three bookshelves, passed across the door that must lead to the hall, turned the corner, and was just about to reach the fireplace when she abruptly became aware that something under her fingers had felt wrong. “What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random. ’ ‘What? But—’ ‘Precisely, Hilary.
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