You may enjoy your pride, your arrogance—in a coffin. Fas du tout. “On or about the day you receive this letter, Anna, the six months will be up. The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. ‘While you are making me this interrogation, my poor Jacques bleeds to death. Do you know what? You're some sea goddess and you're only fooling us. My death, probably. . Good night. 1. . ‘No more, Saling, no more,’ said Mrs Sindlesham in accents of exhaustion.
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