He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. His wife's portrait had been removed from the walls, and the place it had occupied was only to be known by the cord by which it had been suspended. "Steady, old top! What are you going to do?" "The damned scoundrel!" "I told you that child was opal. And now, my love," she added, with a relenting look, "I'm content to make up our quarrel.
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