Plote was sleeping or deaf. He continued alternately to be tossed in the air, or rolled in the kennel until he was borne out of sight. Every eye seemed focussed upon her; and yet she had known the sensation to be the conceit of her imagination. ‘We needn’t murder Lucia. At the bottom of the trunk was a large manila envelope, unmarked. And now take away those cards, and never let me see them again. "Oh, yes!—for always!" He took her hands and pressed them upon his thrumming heart; and in this attitude they remained for some time.
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