Here he found another strong door, making the fifth he had encountered. “For me there is no second turn. The winter had turned sea and sky to a wet gray. This way, Sir Rowland. She asked no further questions for the moment. You seemed, he thought, to have some grievance which you would not explain and which he thought must arise from a misunderstanding. The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast. The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room. .
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