"Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. The spring can't be opened on this side. She flung herself back into the bare little room, cold, empty, comfortless. The one nearest to her, which must lead to the library. “Nigel, don’t you understand. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament.
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