\"I could eat now. I had dreamt of the olive grove beyond the courtyard I had once been fascinated 198 with as a boy. From the freshness of the stains, which grew more frequent as they approached the adjoining chamber, it was evident some violence had been recently perpetrated, and the carpenter's own blood froze within his veins as he thought, with a thrill of horror, that, perhaps on this very spot, not many minutes before his arrival, his adopted son might have been inhumanly butchered. And yet that could not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death.
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