His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. Her voice was weak and flat. "Yes—what do you mean, Ma'am?" added Jack, staggering after her. ‘Suppose you don’t know what sort of proof she was after?’ he asked. “Promise. Holcroft, we may have been mistaken. No need to do such things.
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