And, if ever I'm brought to the gallows, I shall lay my death at her door. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. He took her fingers and lifted his eyes to hers. Drink the toast, Jack. It seems to me just talk; it seems to me like the fancy of a dream. What had she so nearly said? She had almost spoken a name—and quickly withdrawn it. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended.
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