Wish SHE”—he indicated Miss Klegg’s back with a nod—“was at the bottom of the sea. Not fit to be dust on your boots. I want to get away—to go to London. The law would accord her all her previous rights: she would return to the exact status out of which in his madness he had taken her. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. I don’t see any good in life if it hasn’t got you in it.
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