Manning loved her presented itself to her bloodlessly, stilled from any imaginative quiver or thrill of passion or disgust. He had not taken many steps when he perceived Quilt Arnold in the upper gallery, with a lamp in his hand. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death. “Lucy, you have to play for us after dinner, oh please. At this moment, Blueskin appeared with the lamp, and revealed a horrible spectacle,—the floor deluged with blood,—various articles of furniture upset,—papers scattered about,—the murdered man's cloak, trampled upon, and smeared with gore,—his hat, crushed and similarly stained,—his sword,—the ensanguined cloth,—with several other ghastly evidences of the slaughterous deed. Love-making at first hand is dull enough. These sweeping dignities were not within the compass of her will; she remembered she liked Ramage, and owed things to him, and she was interested—she was profoundly interested.
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