But you must not imagine me wrapped in melancholy. “You have dyed your hair and darkened your eyebrows. I am not come here to play the part of your father-confessor. I'll tote it myself. “I do not think that he is quite dead. Then the inner door opened abruptly. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. Further on, there were impressions of bloody footsteps along the floor. ‘This from a man who calls himself my friend. I’m not a psycho. The idea that he held in his arms the girl whom he had once so passionately loved, and for whom he still retained an ardent but hopeless attachment, almost overcame him.
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