“There, there, now. She could not run, her limbs were frozen. Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. ” “Bring her—here,” Hill muttered. For a few minutes all was silent. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. She must kill this man, or kill herself. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form.
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