The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. So, at least, thought one of two persons who were seated together in a small back-parlour of the house at Dollis Hill. ” She said. " "You're strangely superstitious, Sir Rowland," said Jonathan, halting, and looking steadfastly at him. "All right," replied Sheppard, with affected indifference.
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