He smiled complacently. The blinds were all drawn, the sunlight kept out, one could not tell what colors these gray swathings hid. " "Could I credit your wild story, I might do so," returned Thames, with a look of perplexity. "Mur—der!" roared Wood, struggling to free himself from his assailant, by whom he was half strangled. We have only those phantoms called memories, which are the husks of dreams. You’ll come along of me, for you’re under arrest, too.
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