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Within the lock I could see the blurred figures of Anita and her captor and it seemed, another figure there. The lock was some ten feet square, with a low ceiling. It glowed with a dim tube-light. I strained at it with futile, silent effort. The mechanism was here to open this manual; but it was now clasped from within so would not operate.
For an hour I avoided his prying questions. His little eyes roved me, and I knew he was no fool, this Dutchman, for all his heavy, stolid look. We remained in his kitchen. Save for its mud walls, its concave, dome-roof, it might have been a cookery of the Highlands. There was a table with its tube-light; the chairs; his electron stove; his orderly rows of pots and pans and dishes on a broad shelf.
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