She might scream until her voice failed; the natives would not come to her aid; they never meddled with the affairs of the whites. But at this point he was still subservient, still outwardly humble, in spite of the blackhearted villainy that was even then burgeoning in his breast. She heard the rats scattering across the stone as dirt fell into the crypt. “You look more like your old self when you smile,” he remarked.
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