“But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself. She is called Madame Ibstock, you understand. The kiss was powerfully moving. ‘And if not her, for she is dead, then me. ” They went on for a time without another word. Even given that he was hopelessly enamoured of the wench, a fact which was obvious to the meanest intelligence.
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