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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. It was hard to gain weight when you hated to eat. I am a murderer. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. “Oh, yes,” the stranger remarked good-humouredly.
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