"I am as God made me. One thing—he could be thankful for that—the peak of his misfortunes had been reached; the world might come to an end now and not matter in the least. He gently took the roses from her and laid them on the pillow. He recoiled from the sting. Wood laughed louder than ever. I am the cause of his ill-usage. He had conveyed it to her, not verbally, but by means of a letter, which seemed to her a singularly ignoble method of prohibition.
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