The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. My servant. She had but to choose. She felt herself falling, her bile rising in her 61 throat, the cold wind spinning around her like vertigo. And it's uncanny. This time they would call it murder.
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