A SCENE FROM THE PHOTOPLAY. “Does he never speak to you of—of old times?” she faltered. . He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. 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. “Holy shit!” Giggling and snickering was amplified by asbestos tiles and reverberated by metal desks.
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