Love Hurts in Cornwall, England, and here is an excerpt to prove the point:
I was barefoot, and almost slipped down the stairs in my haste. I stood on tiptoes, looked through the peephole and saw the top of Jack’s head. He must be looking down for some reason. I flung open the door, and then gasped in horror. He was leaning against the doorframe, his face covered in blood from what looked liked a large gash above his right eye, and several scratches and cuts on his cheeks and chin. His clothes were dirty, torn, and bloody, and he fell through the door into my arms. Instinctively I tried to catch him, and fell to the floor with a cry, trying to support his weight.
“Jack!” I cried, “Jack can you hear me? Speak to me!”
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