Jack may be capable of much that is wicked, but he would never lift his hand against his friend,—of that I am assured. “Just like old times,” she thought sardonically. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity. He pushed her to his bed, little more than a cot, and pulled off her clothes.
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