He confided to me that he felt trapped in his marriage, that he was being ruined by fate. "You'll not be offended, I hope," returned Wood, drily, "if I say that your voice, your manner, and, above all, your very extraordinary way of laughing, put me strangely in mind of one of the 'droll dogs,' (as you term them,) who helped to perpetrate the outrage I've just described. God, Lucy, what’s it been, how many years?” “I’m so sorry, John. Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby. God knows how you did it. I cut off her limbs so that she would not escape. Rituals instead of medicines. It fits your style.
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