‘One would take it that the house had been ransacked. The walls were pristine white and unmarked except for two sconces and a rather colorless Monet poster that had been framed in an expensive oak surround. "I'd lay down my life for yours. Love anywhere. Her husband had caught her leaning over a precipice into the ruins of the oubliette, and had punished her by flogging her back with a switch. He does not look the criminal. Her white shirt was ridiculously utilitarian, but fitted in all the right places, he smirked. ‘But I find you excessively rude, Gérard. It isn’t all. Are you now satisfied?" "No," interposed Wood, furiously, "I shall never be satisfied till I see you hanged on the highest gibbet at Tyburn.
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