‘Ain’t enough as my bed is took, my sheets all bloodied, and my gin took for to waste on that fellow’s wound. He refused his food,—and even when better provisions were offered him, rejected them. His hair flew out from the sides of his head like black bats from a belfry, it was unruly and long. “The surgeon’s knife is surely a kindly weapon,” she declared. Not that he deliberately courted danger; it was rather the searcher, seeking analysis, the why and wherefore of this or that invading emotion. As for this infatuation—it’s like some obsession, some magic thing laid upon you. Jack was so harrassed that he felt half inclined to stand at bay. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. A man, then, rushed up the entry, and, seizing the unlucky carpenter by the collar, presented a drawn sword to his throat.
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