His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. She would be surrendering to all her impulses—particularly the good impulses—many of which society had condemned long since because they entailed too much trouble. She cut a deep gash into her own arm with a steel screw, loosing drops of her own blood onto the floorboards.
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