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Her faculties seemed for a moment numbed. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. She looked upon it with pity as she drank his diabetic blood and saw that several of his fingers were missing. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. ” “And now—I am to lose you. He has no imagination, no real generosity. I wouldn't accept my life from him.
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