. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. She is the image of what I was like, and she has a better voice. “At a boarding-house?” he gasped. Look in the small hide-bound book that he keeps in his boot. I will take her back. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. An unhappy little sigh escaped her.
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