There was no rush. There was a great splash of blood upon it, her hand was all wet and sticky. Beyond was an avenue of tall poplars that rose like columns, disappearing into undulating hills that were black with sleeping houses and fertile soil. But all of that was forgotten. "'And thine eye shall not pity,'" said her father, in a tone of rebuke, "'but, life shall be for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot. I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred.
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