"Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. . ” “It’s an unrest—a longing—What’s that?” The waiter had intervened. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him.
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