She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before. His back was no sooner turned, than she slipped this casket into the box. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. "Under these circumstances, Rowland did what any other sensible person would do. I don’t love you. There’s plenty to be got out of life in a decent sort of way.
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