Tell us why you are afraid, but I think it's something far worse than fear that I see now in you. She could not kill the quaver in her voice.So he's taken you to his Hell and sent you back? She took Lestat's face in her hands and turned it towards her.Then tell us what it was, this Hell, tell us why we must be afraid. So the Prince of Lies had a tale to tell, did he? she asked. He pushed back the Chinese chair, and wringing his hands he began to pace, the inevitable prelude to his tale telling. In his arms, to his chest he clutched a flat bundle of folded cloth as if it carried the whole fate of the world embroidered on it. As for the bundle he had carried in his arms, what could it have possibly been? I do not even think I thought of it. I remember only that the morning hastened us away, and if you cried too, I never heard you, I never thought to listen. But nothing could lessen the grotesque picture of his torn face where the cuts of a claw or fingernails surrounded the gaping, puckering lids.
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