She had already killed more than she wanted to count, yet she had counted them still. "But I am now coming to the point which most concerns you. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. No matter how many books one read, each was different, as each human being was different. “There is no—Good God!” he exclaimed. "My mother,—my poor mother!" exclaimed Jack.
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