" "Nothing," echoed Wood furiously. Like a trollop in heat. "My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly. He noted an ebony cane laid close to hand, which suggested she was able to get about. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. The bed-and table-linen were of the finest texture. It is repulsive. .
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