For a long time he stared at the empty doorway. Tom swore he hadn't set eyes on him since the trial. “That sounds quite absurd,” she answered. Awful shapes seemed to flit by, borne on the wings of the tempest, animating and directing its fury. But what the deuce! He was human; he was a machine only when on the hunt. “All the time he is shouting and muttering. Occasionally the canvas snapped as the wind veered slightly.
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