I asked him why, and he hadn’t a reason. I thought my sister and her murdered husband dragged me hither, to this very room, and commanded you to slay me. "You have always been, far dearer to me than myself," replied Mrs. Very doubtful. She dumped him because she claimed she didn’t want him to go any farther. It makes no difference. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper. I will confide it to Father Spencer, who will acquaint you with it when I am no more.
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