"Come Bess,—no whimpering. And many of these deaths could be avoided if it were not for superstition. "I don't know what I think," Wood answered sulkily; and he bent his eyes upon the water, as if he wished to avert his attention forcibly from the scene. The important secret remained locked in my breast, but I resolved to be avenged. “I think we have,” he answered, gravely, and took her in his arms, and smoothed her hair from her forehead, and very tenderly kissed her lips. I can’t forget about your sister. When she was done she checked the patio door and carried his body into the garage, burying his remains next to the ten year old girl he had raped and killed last autumn, whose bones were starting to show in small areas where the maggots had feasted. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. Only a book detective could dope this out. He dressed mechanically; so many moves this way, so many moves that. Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill.
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