So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it. Vorsack echoed him. He had meant to be master of his fate that evening and it had escaped him altogether. ‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats.
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