It isn’t because you’re good, but because I may be rotten bad; and there’s something—something living and understanding in you. His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. The train, meantime, had passed Marylebone Lane, when it again paused for a moment, at Jack's request, near the door of a public-house called the City of Oxford.
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