Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. Buck up. He sat on the bed, throwing aside his hat. The assassination, as you call it, was, obviously, the vengeance of a kinsman of the injured lady, who no doubt was of good family, upon her seducer. Spurlock knew exactly what he was doing, however: speculative mischief, to see how she would act. "Is it a bargain?" "Take half of my estate—take all—my life, if you will—I am weary of it!" cried Trenchard passionately. They are all at prayer at this hour.
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