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The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. " Quilt, however, seemed unwilling to speak. Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. Annabel thought, and thought again. ’ Trodger frowned, and chewed his lip. A handy knife, and a good tot of something sharp to clean out the wound. The woollen-draper looked at his watch. “Concern me!” she repeated fiercely.
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