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’ Gerald smiled. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. Twice Spurlock went to Copeley's—twenty miles to the northwest—for ice and mail. William Kneebone, Of me, Sir, you shall never be bone. \"Yes, uh, no.
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