" He then sprung into the coach, the door of which was closed by Obadiah, who mounted the box. He stooped to recover it, and his face was hidden. But that doesn’t alter the fact that there IS innocence. I don’t conceal it. The mode of destruction makes no difference. The note-passer lagged behind with her. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. But, after all, it will be different.
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