“What is the good of pretending?” she said. He gave you a poison. One post-midnight meeting, she could stand it no longer. "It's not an offer," continued he, "that I'm likely to make, or you're likely to receive every day in the year. She stood there with white set face and nervously clenched fingers. The funeral procession had now approached the grave, around which many of the congregation, who were deeply interested by the sad ceremonial, had gathered.
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