Fatigued by his previous exertions, and incumbered by his fetters, he was by no means—though ordinarily remarkably swift of foot—a match for his foes, who were fast gaining upon him. She took it up in her many-ringed hands and read it judicially. ‘He can’t be Valade, that’s certain,’ mused Gerald, unheeding. “Besides, it is not so. "Mur—der!" roared Wood, struggling to free himself from his assailant, by whom he was half strangled. She breathed into a cloth soaked in rose oil as Sebastian had prescribed, but the smell of roses mixed obscenely with the smell of death and decay, causing her to retch.
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