"His wife is still living," returned Kneebone, drily. "To paint your portrait," answered the jailer. But, rather than be the cause of any further misunderstanding between you and my benefactor, I will leave London and its neighbourhood for ever. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. ’ ‘I could have done so at the first and saved you the pain,’ she told him merrily. Ireton, you are in league with him. Winny, this is the last night I shall pass beneath your father's roof. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily.
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