The thin stream of blood on which her eyes were fastened with a nameless horror reached almost to her feet. "Well, Sir?" cried the other, eagerly. He took her hand and looked into her eyes and spoke, divided against himself, in a voice that was forced and insincere. She wondered who the girl might belong to as she patted dirt over the shallow grave. Several people in the crowd seemed to be fighting. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year.
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