" "You hear, my son," said the widow eagerly. “I look older. "I could almost forgive the wretch the injury he did me in depriving me of my poor dear wife—No, not quite that," he added, a little confused. She had slept badly at first in a long chair next to the fire waiting for him to return, but caught on after that. He shook his head all the time. A scene now ensued, highly characteristic of the age, and the occasion. “How so?” “I should have shared these things with you earlier, my sweet heart. What better way to be rid of him? ‘Jacques,’ she uttered urgently. It did not cheer or fortify him with false courage and recklessness; it simply enveloped him in a mist of unreality.
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