‘I fear you mistake, Emile. She staggered to the fireplace and thrust it into the heart of the dying flames. Black blood and white bone flew into the corners of the crypt, slathering the dead faces of the corpses left piled in the corner. It had evidently seen better days before being relegated to the ministrations of a hackney coachman, one who evidently served the less affluent inhabitants of London. ‘What, and miss getting myself murdered?’ ‘She said she wouldn’t murder you. Bordered by fine timber, the road occasionally offered glimpses of a lovely valley, until a wider opening gave a full view of a delightful and varied prospect. There was an air of repressed gaiety in her actions: the sense of freedom had returned; her heart was empty again.
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