‘Adieu, imbecile,’ she threw at him gleefully. Married the other and ran off after Mary died. She let Jack go as he passed through the opening. Why not? Were not his own sentiments inclined in favour of the patient? But fifty gold was fifty gold. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava.
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