His arm closed in around her middle and she was caught. She lay and nibbled at a sprig of dwarf rhododendron. The infant’s body, now missing its pulverized head, was still twitching among the blood-soaked ruins of corpses. "It's wretched enough, indeed, Sir," rejoined the widow; "but, poor as it is, it's better than the cold stones and open streets. . I hate myself!” She collapsed to the floor, sobbing.
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