Then a handkerchief was thrown over the cage, to prevent the bird from singing; it was her favourite canary. "He has not the power—perhaps not the will to do so. She resolved not to allow him or her hunger detract from the performance at hand, as it would be a special one, an evening to be remembered in the gray days to follow like a precious jewel. “Good-bye, John,” she said simply. She sighed with relief. It’s on the horse. His blood would be sweet with it. “I had found her at last, and she shot me.
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