Her head dangled unnaturally for an instant, unleashed from its moorings, then sank to join her husband’s on the floor. "My portrait!" echoed Jack. Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor. “Just do it. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. Panic leapt into his eyes as he brought his wrist up just in time to parry the blade. Obviously he is still interested. It slid off flimsily.
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