I can’t love you. And yet that could not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death. Piercing through every crevice in the clothes, it, in some cases, tore them from the wearer's limbs, or from his grasp. The twists in his brain had suddenly straightened out; he was normal, wholly himself; and he knew now exactly what he had done. “We are clerks in the same bank. Wood's dwelling,—a plain, substantial, commodious farm-house.
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