“I remember hearing something about it. Men do services for the love of women, and the woman who takes must pay. When in the plenitude of his power, he commenced a terrible trade, till then unknown—namely, a traffic in human blood. I know nothing about the girl, save what you have told me. The shouts of indignation—the frightful yells now raised baffle description. “You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked. On the floor, underneath the sixth row desks, was an ashtray with a small black dot of blood on its blunt round corner.
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