Capes sat down in the armchair beside her. ‘Who kills who?’ ‘Rot in hell,’ he snarled, panting, and managed to push himself forward and leap off the dais, running for the safety of the far aisle by the wall. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. Go to her, I say, and take her in your arms, you poor benighted Ironsides! I can't make you see.
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