With a moment of inward shame he remembered his deportment towards Anna. "I won't trouble you further, Jack," he remarked. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he produced a pocket-flask, and taking off the silver cup with which it was mounted, filled it with the contents of the flask, and then seizing the thin arm of the sleeper, rudely shook it. The infant’s body, now missing its pulverized head, was still twitching among the blood-soaked ruins of corpses. . . " Quilt, however, seemed unwilling to speak. All men are bloody fucking hypocrites.
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