The chamber, into which he stole, like all carpenters' workshops, was crowded with the implements and materials of that ancient and honourable art. She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. Winds returned, the gardens withered, and roses would not bloom. “So it’s like you’re a dead end?” He asked innocently. Her heart full of dread, she dragged on it.
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