Afterward she wanted to get her letter to her father back in order to read it over again, and, if it tallied with her general impression of it, re-write it. “What is the good of pretending?” she said. She had turned round sideways, so as to look down into the fire. Wood was not particularly fortunate in his own matrimonial connections. “I murdered them, John. And even she was forced to admit to herself that this last resource of hers was a slender reed on which to lean.
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