"Farewell!" blubbered the executioner's wife, pressing his hand to her lips. Perhaps there were experiences she would never confide to any man. She drew a chair to the window and stared at the splendour of the tropical night. Ray Plote was most certainly feeling restless, what if he had left the house for the evening? She needed to eat. Alcohol— would you believe it?—steadies his nerves and keens his brain: which is against the laws of gravitation, you might say. Everyone will grumble to you confidentially—Miss Ellicot, she’s our swagger young lady, you know—up there, next to Miss White, she will tell you that it is so out of the world here, so far away from everyone one knows. 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. She leaned a little towards him.
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