A hazy face appeared through the fog of sleep, pale and thin and looming. The hour for which, presumably, she had been created was drawing nigh. And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. It was supposed he was drowned in crossing the river, as his body had never been found. Suddenly she had become afraid. There’s the internal factor as well as the external. It had her raven locks, her pouting lips. Sniveling brats, little fatherless bastards, you should breathe a sigh of relief. He saw his father, calling to him from an icy white tunnel, beckoning to him. And, if you hear any odd noise in the parlour, don't mind it. The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases.
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