He took the first step toward the stairs, and met the restraining hand of McClintock. A chain, riveted to an iron belt encircling her waist, bound her to the wall. She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup. Wood was heard without, angrily demanding admittance. ‘I dropped the lantern,’ Jack’s muffled voice told her. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise.
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