She leaned forward in her chair, as if petrified in fear by the scary story. "Ay, murder him, if you like the term," returned Wild. Lord Charvill champed upon an invisible bit for a moment or two, closing the gap between himself and the girl, and muttering the name to himself in an overwrought sort of way. Sir John, by instinct and training, was an unimaginative person. Something forbade him to draw her toward him and seal the compact with a kiss.
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