She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. Then he entered her passionately, riding her with exquisite precision. She staggered to the fireplace and thrust it into the heart of the dying flames. ‘Be quiet, man,’ snapped Hilary, watching the Frenchman go by with the lad after him. "Dead!" echoed the boy.
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