As Spurlock called her name, she paused and turned. "Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. ‘What are you, a nincompoop? She was Nicholas’s wife, of course. ” It was her last evening in that wrappered life against which she had rebelled. For a long time she surveyed a row of towering holly-hocks, as though they offered an explanation.
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