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His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. “I hope,” Annabel answered lazily, “that you have succeeded. “I’m still inside you. He lowered himself on to her. I asked him—to take me away. You shall swing for this after next sessions, or my name's not Jonathan Wild. Mr. Lucy's ears were singing.
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