He was always tenderly courteous; he answered her ordinary questions readily and her extraordinary ones patiently; he always rose when she entered or left the room. They rose as she approached. Then, mysteriously, he no longer smelled or tasted it. She tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat. In a moment his grasp grew weaker. Keeping hold of the doorhandle, she turned slowly. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire.
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