“It is very, very difficult,” she continued, looking steadfastly at the ground. No man knew whence she had come nor why. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. Life! Life and love! It makes me want to be always young, always strong, always devoting my life—and dying splendidly. The knife is at my breast. . ’ ‘So would you run away,’ she uttered impulsively. Mark yourself as a charitable man and you’ll be rewarded here and in Heaven. So you, Jacques, must go and wait for me with the horse. Voices floated down, but there was no sound of pursuit.
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