“Yes, John. " "'The avenger of blood himself shall slay the murderer'," said Wood, who was culling for himself certain texts from the scriptures. "Every inch of it," replied the woollen-draper. Her shoulders were gripped hard and a familiar voice spoke. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. He murmured his delight, and joined the bridge party, where he played with less than his accustomed skill. She propped a pillow against his padded headboard and sat herself into a stiff upright position, legs expertly crossed. .
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