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She could not feel her own body. “Do you know,” she said, “that every one is remarking how ill you look. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. ’ She thrust him into the aperture, and pushed the hilt of the sword into his hand. I can wield a quarterstaff as well as a prize-fighter, and have beaten Figg himself at the broadsword. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. And I want him out of uniform.
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