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You are my prisoner, murderer. "I cannot—dare not injure him," rejoined Trenchard, with a haggard look, and sinking, as if paralysed, into a chair. When in the plenitude of his power, he commenced a terrible trade, till then unknown—namely, a traffic in human blood. He growled in his throat and, thrusting his coat open, revealed his own buckled sword-belt. Scarcely had it come to a halt, when a stalwart man shouldered his way, in spite of their opposition, through the lines of soldiery to the cart, and offered his large horny hand to the prisoner. "Gone," replied the wounded man. “Not at all. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application. She thought then that she had shaken off the man of the bulging blue eyes forever, but that night she found he followed her into her dreams.
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