“Miss Pellissier, isn’t it?” he said. ‘I am not a murderer. The glance, which he threw at the door, was singularly expressive of his character: it was a mixture of alarm, effrontery, and resolution. I too can see it. She had been fighting down this thought for days: that Hoddy did not care, that he did not love her, that he had mistaken a vagary of the mind for a substance, and now regretted what he had done— married a girl who was not his equal in anything. I don’t suppose a girl can tell if a man is in love with her or not in love with her. She sat on the edge of the bed overwhelmed, the roses cradled in her arms. The imbecile.
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