“I think she would,” she decided. He looked at it eagerly, but made no movement to take it. He had a quick, shrewd, merry eye, and a look in which duplicity was agreeably veiled by good humour. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed. She would write to Gerald. He's coming. And yet—Wait a little, you’d better have every bit of it. Her husband had caught her leaning over a precipice into the ruins of the oubliette, and had punished her by flogging her back with a switch.
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