The emerald wings, slashed with scarlet and yellow, wheeling and swooping about her head, there among the wild plantain. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. The fellow is little better than a lunatic. “Oh yes,” said Miss Klegg; “I thought every one knew. Think of those days in Paris. It proved to be a human head, though with scarcely a vestige of the features remaining.
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