His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. It was now a quarter past twelve. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, assuming a fearful accent. Entering London, he bent his way towards the west-end; and having some knowledge of a secondhand tailor's shop in Rupert Street, proceeded thither, and looked out a handsome suit of mourning, with a sword, cloak, and hat, and demanded the price. The Morning Post was hungry for governesses and nursery governesses, but held out no other hopes; the Daily Telegraph that morning seemed eager only for skirt hands. ‘As for your dagger—’ She held out her hand palm up, as if she expected him to give her the weapon.
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