A strange page in the book of human life is this Thought I, as he left the room. That man, the perpetrator of so many hundred murders, thinks on the past with satisfaction and pleasure; nay he takes a pride in recalling the events of his life, almost every one of which is a murder, and glories in describing the minutest particulars of his victims, and the share he had in their destruction, with scarcely a symptom of remorse Once or twice only has he winced while telling his fearful story, and what agitated him most at the commencement of his tale I have yet to hear.
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