She could hardly speak to me; she insisted relentlessly upon a separation. A gust of irrational impatience blew through her being. "To him I owe everything," continued the widow, "life itself—nay, more than life,—for without his assistance I should have perished, body and soul. Not a scar but has its history. It isn’t pretty, but we’re made so. She crushed the letter in her hand.
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