"I have never been out of this horrible dungeon since we last met," he said; "though how long ago that is, I scarcely know. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. “My friend,” she said, “no! Let me tell you this. But with the morning, the glorious unstained morning the passion of living would stir even the blood of a clod. ' He muttered it continually. "Was I out of my head?" "Yes. “But—” The long inconsecutive conversation by that time was getting on her nerves. I would have liked to know.
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