“But,” he said, “you do not blame me altogether?” She rose to her feet. But she veiled her feelings. He was always deceived by these rustlings which promised wind and seldom fulfilled that promise. ‘I might have killed you,’ she snapped, ‘if only you did not say anything. She spied him sitting on his armless black couch, his feet splayed as he stared at his television blankly. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion.
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