"Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. She donned her gloves. Like the parrot, she could memorize the lines, but she could not understand them. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. Your husband could have told you that.
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