“Election be hanged!” he exclaimed. ‘Silence,’ he warned again, with a prod of the dagger at her heart. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms. “Dare!” she said. That was the true miracle of the gift; without actual experience, to imagine love and hate and greed and how they would react upon each other; and then, when these passions had served their temporary purpose, to cast them aside for new imaginings. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. When you've seized him, cough thrice thus,—and two rough-looking gentlemen will make their appearance.
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