“You are a funny, a very funny young lady,” he said, “but we waste time here. Then he would turn his face to her, and she would have to think of herself in his eyes. Occasionally the canvas snapped as the wind veered slightly. But I'm not worrying about that. She was too late. This was the body of a man, apparently lifeless, and stretched upon a mattress, with his head bound up in a linen cloth, through which the blood had oosed.
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