‘C’est ridicule. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. The tired woman looked up in inquiring silence at Ann Veronica’s diffident entry. He renewed his supplications to Sharples, but with no better success than heretofore; and the greater part of the night was passed by him and the poor widow, whose anxiety, if possible, exceeded his own, in the most miserable state imaginable. "I have killed you," cried Jack, endeavouring to staunch the effusion of blood from her breast.
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