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‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman. Got the day off. “The man who was found dead in your sister’s room was named Hill?” “It is the man,” she answered. White, my landlady, believes his story. At this moment, Blueskin appeared with the lamp, and revealed a horrible spectacle,—the floor deluged with blood,—various articles of furniture upset,—papers scattered about,—the murdered man's cloak, trampled upon, and smeared with gore,—his hat, crushed and similarly stained,—his sword,—the ensanguined cloth,—with several other ghastly evidences of the slaughterous deed. He no longer made love to her, as there was no point. There is something sensual in the thought of lotus flowers.
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