“Because I hate you!” She spat. She twanged the catgut under her fingers. She trembled; but she did not know why. Sir Cecil, who with Rowland and some others had entered the room rushed to the window with a torch. For now, I fear there is something worse, something more present. If he recovers he may not accuse her. Hey. Awful shapes seemed to flit by, borne on the wings of the tempest, animating and directing its fury.
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