Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels. In truth, Sheila never saw Lucy murder anyone at all, she only saw the blood. “I’ve been through all that,” she went on, after a pause. “I mean it. It was not as bad a wound as she had at first thought, and the blood was only oozing now. She had come to the end of her resources. Go back at once, please. It ceased to be the symbol of liberty and a remote and quite abstracted person, and became suddenly and very disagreeably the token of a large and portentous body visible and tangible.
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