CHAPTER III. The gallows has groaned for him for years. Gifts came from Florence: rubies and emeralds, a beautiful statue of Santa Maria for their garden grotto, a gorgeous silk tapestry of a hunting scene that alone made the price of her dowry look paltry. "This is our last transaction together. The work of plunder over, that of destruction commenced. So she brought upon the stage the Reverend Henry Dolby, a preacher of means, worldly-wise and kindly, cheery and rotund, who, with his wife and daughter, had arrived at the Victoria that morning. Nothing, however, could be discerned, except the crumbling brickwork. When she was done she checked the patio door and carried his body into the garage, burying his remains next to the ten year old girl he had raped and killed last autumn, whose bones were starting to show in small areas where the maggots had feasted. The blast shrieked, as if exulting in its wrathful mission. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. .
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