"Ay, murder him, if you like the term," returned Wild. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea. ’ ‘It’s immaterial, in any event,’ Roding put in. “Come in. ‘Pray do not trouble yourself, Saling. ‘And so?’ she asked. She pulled her veil down, and he knew that silence was best.
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