Jackson. ‘Ah, bah, it is enough,’ she cried, and turning, ran out of the room. ‘Never mind where. He stood up, apparently intending to put an arm about her, but she stepped back from him quickly. 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. The destroying angel hurried by, shrouded in his gloomiest apparel.
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