"I could almost forgive the wretch the injury he did me in depriving me of my poor dear wife—No, not quite that," he added, a little confused. It was as if her aesthetic sense had become inflamed. And it's uncanny. The effort to maintain her self-control was almost superhuman. “May I ask whether you are staying with friends in town?” he inquired deferentially. "Perhaps. "This gash," he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. .
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