“I saw him stagger and sink down, and the pistol was smoking still in my hand. Piano wire, stained with black rust from the horrible deeds she had committed. You cannot arrest yourself. Lonesomeness isn't my worry. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. Let us search it. She was as lovely in the spirit as in the flesh. There was something which chilled even him in the cold impassivity of her features. Perhaps that other boy who visited you backstage at the concert. This discovery made, I hastened back to London to offer you my hand, but found you had married in the mean time a smock-faced, smooth-tongued carpenter named Sheppard.
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