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His breath grew shallower as he approached the room, conscious of the loudness of his hallway-reverberated footfalls. There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight. It disgusts me that you should touch me. In a little while—to-morrow—all these tender, beautiful emotions will pass away, and I'll become what I was yesterday, a cynical, miserly old spinster. “Do it now.
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