But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. This done, he unloosed the pulley, and the ponderous machine, which resembled a trough, slowly descended upon the prisoner's breast. McClintock stared into the bowl of his pipe and Spurlock into his coffee cup. Gazing at her with eyes blinded with tears, he imprinted one brotherly kiss upon her lips. She would never forget the agony of that first meal in the great dining room. Now there is none. The Bitchster strikes again.
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