“I don’t know. She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. She opened the window, for the night was mild, and sat on the floor with her chin resting upon the window-sill. Kneebone—she was too well acquainted; having, more than once, been obliged to repel his advances; and, though his impertinence would have given her little concern at another season, it now added considerably to her distraction. He sent me flowers. Pile it on! But if you can hear the voice of the mote, the speck, don't let her suffer for anything I've done. Threw it out.
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