The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. "Married!—no—no," replied the woollen-draper. I’m that shamed to confess it, miss, but it were then I thought of Martha. The man could put a bullet through her before she could hope to reach any one of them.
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