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A slow horror was dawning in his fixed eyes. “I remember hearing something about it. At a turn in the road, he perceived Winifred looking anxiously towards him, and when she discovered him, she waved her hand. ” The man made no attempt to recover the revolver. But the young man with the orange tie remained in his place, disputing whether the body had not something or other which he called its legitimate claims. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. She felt him as something solid and strong and trustworthy beyond measure. That terrible laughter, just before his senses had left him! Why? Here was a word that volleyed at her from all directions, numbed and bewildered her: the multiple echoes of her own first utterance of the word. "The poor young man!" she said.
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