She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. "A thousand pounds," he observed, gloomily, "is a heavy price to pay for doubtful secrecy, when certain silence might be so cheaply procured. She speedily reached her own abode,—a little cottage, standing in the outskirts of the village. She saw its depraved eyes, but worse were the glittering teeth as it smiled.
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