Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. "My portrait!" echoed Jack. Spurling has induced him to sit down again. He did not write this with lead but with his heart's blood. "This gash," he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. The petals have fallen—the red petals we loved so.
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