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“I wish you would not do it. The summer arrived, speeding the Plague and with it the famine in the streets. “What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random. Rollo began to cavort. The next morning she went out with her post-office savings bank-book, and telegraphed for a warrant to draw out all the money she had in the world. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. "When is he to suffer?" she demanded, fixing her large black eyes, which burnt with an insane gleam, upon him.
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