"Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. "I haven't offended you?"—not contritely but curiously. "I had no thought of injuring your wife, and would have died rather than commit so foul a crime. There it is—against you. ” True summer descended like a sticky fever upon August’s arrival, bringing with it miasmas of humidity that seemed to hang from the trees like mucus.
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