In truth, Sheila never saw Lucy murder anyone at all, she only saw the blood. Oh, yes; of Ruth herself he knew much; but the more he mulled over what he knew, the deeper grew his chagrin. Wearied at length with thinking on the past, and terrified by the prospect of the future, he threw himself on the straw with which the cage was littered, and endeavoured to compose himself to slumber. I am out of your life forever, never having been in it.
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