"Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. It looked very patient, she thought, and a little self-satisfied. "I must tell you," she was saying. ” Part 2 Then it was the expostulations really began. "These writer chaps are queer birds.
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