He took into his soul some of the father's misery, some of the daughter's, to mingle with his own. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. You are my prisoner, murderer. More than this, it would serve to mitigate her own abysmal loneliness to pool it temporarily with his. His head turned sideways towards the noise, his brows scowling. This time they would call it murder. From me.
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