"This gash," he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. He worked afternoons, when everybody else went to sleep; he worked at night under a heat-giving light, with insects buzzing and dropping about, with a blue haze of tobacco smoke that tried to get out and could not. I could see his little animal brain churning away, inventing plans for me, formulating his revenge. "Where did you pick it up?" "I believe I told you; at Yale. Come.
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