He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed. "Precisely. He looked from the sword to the dagger with which he had brought her down here, and grimaced. To lose was death, quickly and mercilessly delivered. It isn’t sentiment but it’s horse sense. He held her hand in his, cupped together like a pair of shells for the rest of the hour. “The fact is—I don’t know why—this takes me by surprise. The rest.
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