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Then his jaws snapped at the back of the fisher-cat's neck. When he was done Oochak was dead. He slunk away, but in him there was no more the thrill of the victor. He had killed, but in killing he had found no joy. Upon him the four-footed beast had fallen at last the oppression of the thing that drives men mad. He stood in the heart of a vast world, and for him that world was empty.
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