She dragged the broken bottle across her carotid artery, creating an inch-deep gash upon her throat. "Then I'll have it before to-morrow morning," said the keeper of the New Prison, to himself. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. But not once in these ten years had they borne blossom or fruit. This service rendered, without waiting for any farther order, she withdrew. She regarded the young man coldly.
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