" "Perhaps, I wasn't," returned Thames, gloomily, as the remembrance of Jonathan Wild's foul insinuation crossed him. Full as she was of him, it felt good to shower her kill out of her hair. People were not slaves to their gods as they are now, oppressed and unhappy, chained to their mortality and suffering so that they may one day enter an imaginary Heaven. Perhaps it was loneliness. ” The man made no attempt to recover the revolver. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them.
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