I think not, Annabel. He did not explain what had happened to her. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. "There's my answer!" rejoined Wild, hurling the bludgeon at him, with such fatal effect, that striking him on the head it brought him instantly to the ground. The same old lines and verses, over and over, until there had come times when shrieking would have relieved her.
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