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. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. In the midst of the holy place, which he had formerly profaned, lay the body of his unfortunate mother, and he could not help looking upon her untimely end as the retributive vengeance of Heaven for the crime he had committed. A sob was strangled in her throat. He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. When I absorb a fact, my brain weighs the fact carefully and stores it away.
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