His conscience never told him to go back and take his punishment; it tortured him only in regard to the deed itself. That is how I learned that there were such things as novels. ‘What started you off, you madman,’ Roding told him frankly, as he set about tying his handkerchief around the wound, ‘was being born at all. Her back stiffened. Then light footsteps became audible, descending the staircase with a certain deliberation and a faint rustle of skirts. Must be plenty of work for you to do.
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