"I cannot part with him," replied the widow, bursting into tears; "indeed, indeed, I cannot. Her lover, Darrell, has embarked upon the Thames, where, if he's not capsized by the squall, (for it's blowing like the devil,) he stands a good chance of getting his throat cut by his pursuers—ha! ha! I tracked 'em to the banks of the river, and should have followed to see it out, if the watermen hadn't refused to take me. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. When they reached her rooms she stepped lightly out upon the pavement. He made it impossible not to respond, his arms tightening deliciously around hers. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. Wood's house at Dollis Hill on Tuesday'—that's two days ago,—'hasn't been heard of since. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. Her depression since the “accident” had possessed her, she no longer cared how she looked as her beauty helped her not. Lucy stared out to the busy streets beyond. A pretty piece. “I’m inclined to think, Stanley, myself that as a matter of fact it was the expurgated Romeo and Juliet did the mischief.
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