The wound lay open for five seconds, and then closed neatly as if it had been stitched by invisible hands. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. And―and he wanted to help you. ‘Suzanne, if I may say, had also not the choice. The two lovers sat together, and their sole discourse turned upon Jack and his ill-fated mother. I don't care how lonesome it is.
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