The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. I did not even know where to write and thank you. I thought my sister and her murdered husband dragged me hither, to this very room, and commanded you to slay me. ‘For God’s sake, let go my hand,’ he begged. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago.
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