It was not human and yet very human, a high pitched wail of hunger that rattled her skull. “You go home and think of all this,” he said, “and talk about it to-morrow. She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before. Her normally shiny hair was 143 stringy and flat. She was nude and horribly maimed. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. The wine was sweetened with cinnamon and cloves and rare edible flowers, which her father had instructed her not to drink excessively of.
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