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My wife—killed me. ’ ‘Yes, do so,’ rejoined Melusine enthusiastically. After he was gone in the morning, Ruth would steal into the study and hurriedly read what he had written the previous night. He’s dead. You never can go back. With this view, he hurried to the spot where he had left the post-chaise, and found it drawn up at the road-side, the postilion dismounted, and in charge of a couple of farming-men. The family always managed to make it home for supper, even though it was a dying custom. ‘Difficult, I grant you.
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