’ I don’t know what you’d call it —a sort of witchery, almost suggestiveness. What you said wanted saying. ‘Very well, never mind. I saw the motor dashed to pieces against the wall, and I saw him pitched on his head into the road. Before he could recover from the stunning effects of the blow, Wood possessed himself of the child: and, untying the noose which had been slipped round its throat, had the satisfaction of hearing it cry lustily. You are my prisoner, murderer.
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