The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. He's rewriting Poe and De Maupassant; and that stuff was good only when Poe and De Maupassant wrote it. "God in Heaven!" he cried, "the floor is covered with blood. I don’t think for a moment that he would recognize you.
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