He went by another name then,—Rykhart Scherprechter I think he called himself. “You remember our first meeting?” “Yes,” he answered hoarsely. They could not have called it a fatal motor accident if he had not been dead. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend. “You must leave me your address if you please,” he said, as she rose to go. “It is a hateful story. ” She hesitated. She thought of them as fools, but had been sorry to see them go.
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