On this elevation a table was now placed, around which sat the turnkeys and their guests, regaling themselves on the fragrant beverage provided by the prisoner. Then he released her hand, and sat back a little, appearing to concentrate his thoughts on her face. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. . He wants you—or he doesn’t; and then he helps some other woman against you. A stack of chimneys, on the house above them, had yielded to the storm, and descended in a shower of bricks and stones. Where her husband saw only two youngsters in the mating mood, she felt that tragedy in some phase lurked in this room—if only in the loneliness of these two, without kith or kin apparently, thousands of miles from home. I can’t love you.
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