“If you wish,” he said, “I will go there in the morning and see what can be done for him. “I am going to fetch some things that will be wanted if he pulls through the next hour. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. He was followed by a great pile of black organs, hers, her female parts. Yes; she had heard the music the night before. He looked around, and as he heard that deafening shout,— as he felt the influence of those thousand eyes fixed upon him,—as he listened to the cheers, all his misgivings—if he had any—vanished, and he felt more as if he were marching to a triumph, than proceeding to a shameful death. I suppose I believe in God. I have suffered too much from your treachery. His face was a little flushed perhaps, and his small, brown eyes were bright.
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