‘I am not a murderer. I tried to have it out with him, but he wouldn’t have it out. You have taken my dagger. He got out in much the same way from the Gatehouse,—stole the keys, and passed through a room where I was sitting half-asleep in a chair. They had their little dreams about her. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. " "Murder him!" cried Trenchard shuddering.
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