You do not love your husband, you have married him for a position —to escape from—things which you feared. "The gentleman is a stranger to me, Poll," replied the woollen-draper, with increased embarrassment. I’ve got a streak of male. Taking up a link, which was blazing beside him, he walked across the room; and touching a spring in the wall, a secret door flew open. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget.
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