Spurlock remained where he was until the sail became an infinitesimal speck in the distance. When in the plenitude of his power, he commenced a terrible trade, till then unknown—namely, a traffic in human blood. Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. They’ll face facts as facts, and understand. ” “Your husband,” he answered bluntly. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor.
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