“Oh yes, as dark as yours,” he smiled, finally unlocking the door, and as he pushed it inwards he caught a glint of interest in her steel grey eyes. “Really?” she said, stifling a yawn as she waited for him to turn the key. “They too had their secrets, their passions, their dark desires.” “The Victorians were not the dull people they are made out to be,” he said, as he produced a key and slipped it into the lock. “They are mainly Victorian in my collection,” he told her, as they reached a final shallow flight of stairs at the end of the corridor and mounted them. She had been persuaded to see, though, if only to humour him. As If such things were beneath her, as if such a passion on his part could be no passion at all, but indicative of a solitary man’s sad life. Her haughty arrogance had annoyed him when he first mentioned the room, the condescending way she had said “how interesting” when he had told her of his collection of toys. Her hand in his, he led her up the stairs and along the corridor to the playroom.
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