When they were home, the pair headed for the Big Apple or the warmth of the Beck’s family table. He was a stranger. When in the plenitude of his power, he commenced a terrible trade, till then unknown—namely, a traffic in human blood. ‘Dieu du ciel, for what do you take me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he threw at her. And though I say it that shouldn't say it, no man can tie a better knot. Wood could stand it no longer.
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