Mary Remenham had passed on her every feature to the daughter whose advent had taken her from this world. His hand went to his pocket and extracted a neat silver-mounted pistol. “I wonder,” she murmured to herself, “if this is the beginning. “Why did you ever let me love you? Why did you ever let me peep through the gates of Paradise? Oh! my God! I don’t begin to feel and realize this yet.
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