"Where is it?" "Are you the mother of this child?" inquired the person who had first spoken, addressing Mrs. She felt sleepy and unusually irritable. "However, I'll refresh your memory. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. They shall hear of me no more. Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles. The man who came to our rooms, you know, that night was his friend. Inhuman as he is, he would not kill her.
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