So she said: “I won’t come home. Oh, Heavens; that I should have ever indulged a hope of happiness while that terrible man lives!" "Compose yourself, Joan," said Wood; "all will yet be well. For my blood you made it very hot indeed. ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself. She glanced towards her sister, and curiously enough found in her face some faint reflection of her own rather sombre mirth. There was, it might be said, a double illumination.
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