“It does not appear to me,” he said, stiffly, “to be an affair for jests. Sepulchre's church was covered—so was the tower. ‘She’s still bleeding. The windows of these rooms were obscured with draperies, their floors a carpet patchwork; the china ornaments on their mantels were of a class apart. His own heart was too full of melancholy foreboding. All the influences about her worked with her own predisposition and against all the traditions of her home and upbringing to deal with the facts of life in an unabashed manner. I swear it. I wonder——” He turned slowly round. She could not look at him through an interval that seemed to her a vast gulf of time. "What shall I do? If I persist, I shall destroy her.
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