She allowed herself to be ejected, therefore, and retired to the parlour after cleansing the blood from her hands and her own slight wound in the kitchen. “It—it—must come,” she faltered. It was finished by the end of that year, each character having asserted itself pronouncedly in my imagination. She screamed involuntarily—she had never in her life screamed before—and then she began to wriggle and fight like a frightened animal against the men who were holding her.
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