“It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. Meysey Hill—never your wife. The doctor frowned. . As a dog eats grass. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. It was you, of course, whom he wanted. No doubt that was due to his helplessness.
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