He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me. “You know,” he went on, “this doesn’t seem to me to end anything. It was not human and yet very human, a high pitched wail of hunger that rattled her skull.
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