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“It was poison—why not?” she answered. “His stipend forbade it,” she said, and seemed to fall into a train of thought. "My own father!" Queerly the room and its objects receded and vanished; and there intervened a series of mental pictures that so long as she lived would ever be recurring. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. And there's your liver. ’ He frowned again.
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