" "Rely on me," rejoined the executioner, throwing away his pipe, which was just finished. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally. Lucy did not want to have to kill the mother, as she hated more than anything to kill women, no matter what their sins. "Thank Heaven! I'm not basely born. And shall their wretched offspring live to blight my hopes, and blast my fame? Never!" And, with these words, he grasped Wood by the throat, and, despite his resistance, dragged him to the very verge of the platform. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind.
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