“Is this hansom for me?” she said. I believed that our marriage was genuine. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. The crowd dispersed in different directions, and most fortunately a heavy shower coming on, put them altogether to flight. It is you who took my name, not I yours. Each time that we meet I try to kill you. My thanks, by the by.
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