‘She wormed it out of me, the little fiend. With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. I'm no great judge of these articles, Ma'am; but I trust to your honour not to palm off paste upon me.
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