The policeman raised his voice, slightly agitated. ” The conversation hung. . "To-night it is their turn," said Jonathan, binding up his wounded fingers with a handkerchief. Wood's dwelling,—a plain, substantial, commodious farm-house. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. Moreover, atrociously and inexorably, he allowed it to appear ever and again in horrible gleams that he suspected there was some man in the case.
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