He had saluted her with elaborate civility, his eyes distended with indecipherable meanings. The door to the room in question was closed. “It was poison—why not?” she answered. Here was an appalling fact: all her previous loneliness had been trifling beside that which now encompassed her and would for years to come. Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis. He seemed to charge her with the ruin of their situation. "What did you do?" he asked, in a broken voice. Wouldn't it be fun to see his name on a book-cover some day? He'll go strutting up and down without ever dreaming he owed the whole shot to us. ‘But I’m hanged if I know why you find it so amusing. Here he found another strong door, making the fifth he had encountered. It was years before your time.
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