"He is dying?" whispered Ruth. Beside me on Anna’s table was a pistol. And yet the moment I am safely out of the way you are content to dress yourself in my rags, to go and get yourself popular and admired and successful, all on my reputation. I don’t know. “Oh, you know,” she said. In privacy he read and reread it a dozen times, and eventually destroyed it by fire. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. ‘Ah, Madame Joan.
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