But what the deuce! He was human; he was a machine only when on the hunt. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. “I will be off,” she declared. As for this infatuation—it’s like some obsession, some magic thing laid upon you. " He started to pick up a sheet of manuscript, but she pushed him from the table toward the doorway; and he staggered out of the bungalow, suddenly stretched his arms, and broke into a trot. Her girl Clarice was next, dying within a single day, blood leaking from her pretty brown eyes like an image of the Blessed Virgin. A short flight of steps brought him to a dark passage, into which he plunged.
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