The thin stream of blood on which her eyes were fastened with a nameless horror reached almost to her feet. He laughed lightly. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. He talked in the same style, and pretty nearly in the same language; laughed in the same manner, and coughed, or sneezed at the same time. “And yet you still live, Butterfly. It was a bizarre sight, a miniature manor, replicated fully, walled in gray limestone. He was sipping a glass of cold gin and water, and smoking a short black pipe.
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