“You know what? You’re right. "This suspense is worse than torture. “Cut her throat!” Sebastian snapped. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. A victim of one of those mental typhoons that scatter irretrievably the barriers of instinct and breeding; and he had gone on the rocks all in a moment. Her elbows were ready. Gently she raised his head and withdrew the coat from under the pillow. You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am.
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