A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend. He would never be able to compose upon it, but it would serve to produce the finished work. But there was no feeling of remorse; there was only the sensation of exaltation. CHAPTER V. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. Gerald’s task was to stop him from doing so.
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