"How, Sir?" "Except by adoption. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. I want to put myself into your hands. ‘In that case, he is probably already dead, and you have nothing to worry about. More than this, it would serve to mitigate her own abysmal loneliness to pool it temporarily with his. The horror of those few minutes was still with her.
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