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" "Let me go," implored Mrs. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. The dog was, in a sense, a gift of the gods. They walked side by side for a time. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. Full as she was of him, it felt good to shower her kill out of her hair.
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