Earles watched her anxiously. “I cut off his right hand pinky with his own rusty bolt cutter. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue. “Oh, we are also under the spell,” he declared, “but I think that we are here mainly because it is cheap.
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