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His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. Thus, more and more Ruth turned to the mongrel dog who bore the name of Rollo unflinchingly—the dog that adored her openly, shamelessly, who now without a whimper took his diurnal tubbing. One never knew when it would be necessary to resume her disguise. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed. White, I am not sure that I could afford to come to you. The knife is at my breast. ’ ‘But you must.
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