“I’m sorry! Mary! Are you hurt?” “No. But this chap is good wine yet. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. He swore that I was his wife, that chance had given me to him at last. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. ” “I have a clue, at any rate,” he remarked, smiling. .
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