" "What do you want me to do?" The doctor thought this query gave hopeful promise. “Can you spare me forty pounds?” she said. “I won’t pretend,” he said, “that this is an accident. She moved towards it slowly and picked it up, holding it out in front of her whilst the familiar perfume seemed to assert itself with damning insistence. ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself. Superstition is the Chinese Reaper.
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