"Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. “I was born there. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. Things that you and the nuns would not think about for—’ She stopped, biting back the words “for a young girl”. Alcohol— would you believe it?—steadies his nerves and keens his brain: which is against the laws of gravitation, you might say.
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