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It was the end, she told herself, fiercely. Baptist Kettleby (for so was the Master named) was a "goodly portly man, and a corpulent," whose fair round paunch bespoke the affection he entertained for good liquor and good living. Instead, he could not get beyond these minor details—why she wore the dress, whence she had come, and whither she was bound. "Agreed," responded the Master. So get up, and let's be off. They were sharp and dripping with black blood.
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