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"I have killed you," cried Jack, endeavouring to staunch the effusion of blood from her breast. She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. “Well,” she said, “good-night, father. The tall, blond boys, right?” “That’s them. He kept that, but the rest. His attitude toward her was purely intellectual, free of any sentimentality, utterly selfish. She reminded him of his linnet, when he gave the bird the freedom of the house: it became filled with a wild gaiety which bordered on madness. "I can't help thinking of it, Sir," answered the widow. Well-balanced, sane, wasn’t I? You never heard anyone call me a madman? I’m pretty near being one now, and it’s her fault. “That’s all very well when one isn’t the material experimented upon,” Ann Veronica had remarked.
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