Occasionally the canvas snapped as the wind veered slightly. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it. They’re too free for their innocence or too innocent for their freedom. Not for me. They leave them out of novels—these incompatibilities. She went about, intentlooking and self-possessed, trim and fine, concealing her emotions whatever they were, as the realities of her position opened out before her.
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