“What is the good of talking?” said her brother. EPOCH THE FIRST, 1703. ‘As for your dagger—’ She held out her hand palm up, as if she expected him to give her the weapon. The fibre of his soul had to be tested, queerly, to make him worthy of you. She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded.
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