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But I was sorry for poor Jack—as I am still, and hoped he would mend. We felt like thieves. She seized the key, and he grasped her hand and squeezed it roughly and painfully between the handle and the ward as she tried to turn it. On your own. ’ ‘He did, you know,’ grinned Gerald. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget.
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