We, ourselves, are scarcely the same we were twelve years ago. “I cut off his right hand pinky with his own rusty bolt cutter. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. There one is! The same stuff still! One has a craving in one’s blood, a craving roused, cut off from its redeeming and guiding emotional side. ” “Two years ago,” she answered. “And, after all, I am just one common person!” She watched the throb of the arteries in the stem of her neck, and put her hand at last gently and almost timidly to where her heart beat beneath her breast.
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