” “Wherever you like!” he answered, a little absently. No one spoke, and she was impelled to flounder on. ‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. And I am grateful to you. The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood.
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