Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. “G. “I think that it is only an idea. “Why would she do that? Why does she care? That’s a waste of her time. What’s that?” They both stood listening. I’ve made no mention of guns and daggers or, indeed, any of the more exciting aspects of the business. She must kill this man, or kill herself. CHAPTER XI.
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