He might have been a complete innocent, she did not know and did not bother to find out. She sat in deep thought for a moment or two, and then nodding briskly, dipped the pen in the ink again and began to write. "Mur—der!" roared Wood, struggling to free himself from his assailant, by whom he was half strangled. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him.
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