When in the plenitude of his power, he commenced a terrible trade, till then unknown—namely, a traffic in human blood. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. He could have easily forced it, but preferred a more expeditious mode of reaching the roof which suggested itself to him. The ruffled chemise-front under the wide lapels of her waistcoat and jacket no longer quivered, and her pose, with the full cloth petticoat spreading about her, was relaxed. ‘Nothing.
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