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I was once a disciple of Saint Peter myself, and speak from experience. I daresay that is one of the names of the nuns in your convent. Why didn’t he die?” Anna sprang to her feet and walked restlessly up and down the room. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. The pistol was his own, it is true, but it was one which was taken from him when he forced his way in upon me before. " "Who?" almost screamed Mrs.
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