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Wood," said the lady bridling up, "my request may, perhaps, have some weight with you. Poor girl! she was beautiful once; so beautiful as to make me, who care little for the allurements of women, fancy myself enamoured of her. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. Rain pounded the tin roof, and waterfalls obscured the pavilion into its own private 91 chamber. Little by little, she stopped hating him.
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