“I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. "Oh, God! that I might die too," cried Jack, falling on his knees beside her. “Your friend, “DAVID COURTLAW. ” Capes looked at his wife’s unsmiling face. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations.
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