When in the plenitude of his power, he commenced a terrible trade, till then unknown—namely, a traffic in human blood. There was hope for me then. He squinted and a disgusted look came over him. But what the deuce! He was human; he was a machine only when on the hunt. She was lovely, painted like the porcelain doll he had always wanted her to be. At table he carved in a gloomy but resolute manner.
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