She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. "If the best nag ever foaled were to throw me in this unlucky spot, I'd blow his brains out. It was not until the morning of the fifth day that the constant vigil was broken. I was rude and stupid. In the midst of the holy place, which he had formerly profaned, lay the body of his unfortunate mother, and he could not help looking upon her untimely end as the retributive vengeance of Heaven for the crime he had committed. At length, he fell down on the road, fully expecting each moment would prove his last. I have a hundred of them—mixed blood—on my island, and they are always rooking me. There was no rush.
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