It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. I have never wept since that day. "I must tell you," she was saying. Perhaps," she added, in a whisper, as she appropriated the beforenamed article, "he has a pocket-book. This also struck her as odd. But not finding it, he had again recourse to the bludgeon, and began beating the hand fixed on the upper rail, until, by smashing the fingers, he forced it to relinquish its hold.
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