A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall. . . In this moment he could have stamped upon the Wastrel's face, and ended the affair; but all that was clean in him, chivalrous, revolted at the thought. “Anna, you are the dearest, bravest sister in the world,” she cried. Using the shirt, she cleaned away the blood.
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