“What did it matter?” she cried. Everything. She loved him. But what did the occupant of the box care? The laugh was always with the dead: they were out of the muddle. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he produced a pocket-flask, and taking off the silver cup with which it was mounted, filled it with the contents of the flask, and then seizing the thin arm of the sleeper, rudely shook it. She felt her canines grow, the hunger consuming her.
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