The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. A victim of one of those mental typhoons that scatter irretrievably the barriers of instinct and breeding; and he had gone on the rocks all in a moment. "Write as I dictate," he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a pistol to his ear. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets.
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