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Outside, there appeared a huge, pink-white, mottled blob Polter's hand, a ridged and pitted surface with great, bristling black stalks of hair. The figure of Babs came through the cage doorway. Blessed normality! The same slim little Babs who always stood, since we were both matured, with her head about level with my shoulders. The latticed door swung shut with a reverberating metallic clank.
He took to the road again, plodding upward apparently without a thought of his pursuer, stopping to stare at the bleak prospect holes, or to admire the pink-white beauties of the snowy range in the far distance, seemingly a man entirely bereft of suspicion. A quarter of a mile he went, a half. Once, as the road turned beside a great rock, he sought its shelter and looked back.
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