“Queer letters he writes,” she said. She read on and on, now thrilled by the swiftly moving drama, now enraptured by the tender passages of love. "Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. \" She thought of her kill. One post-midnight meeting, she could stand it no longer. CHAPTER XXVII His idea, cleverly planned, was to shatter her resistance, to confound her suddenly by striking her mind with words which would rob her coherent thought.
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