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"We must change the subject," remarked Thornhill, pausing in his task; "this will never do. The prisoner breathed with difficulty. Everything had stayed the same during the centuries. He still watched her and questioned her. The slack of her ridinghabit and full under-petticoats was gathered into her left hand, and her booted ankles were visible as she held the skirts well out of her way. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. The Bed Room 400 XIX.
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