She could still smell the now familiar scent of him on the girl's body in the makeshift grave. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. “Not much,” he answered, “and yet about all there is to be known, I fancy. ‘I thank you. One can't help being jealous, you know, even of an unworthy object. K-kimble, sir,’ stammered the lad. .
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