She must kill this man, or kill herself. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. At the first glance, he imagined he must have stumbled upon a museum of rarities, there were so many glass-cases, so many open cabinets, ranged against the walls; but the next convinced him that if Jonathan was a virtuoso, his tastes did not run in the ordinary channels. “Here we are, living in the same suburb,” he began.
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