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The man who staggers, whose face is flushed, whose attitude is either noisily friendly or truculent, has some chance; liquor bends him eventually. The servants had left the room. She did not see the metal pole swing toward the back of her skull, nor did she feel her own blood spoiling her light hair after the dull crack of metal broke her flesh. "Where am I?" she cried, passing her hand across her brow. "So, stir your stumps, Saint Giles; and, if you mean to lock us up, use despatch.
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