It would have been better had he succeeded in murdering her, she thought. A deadlock. "But they will find the evidences of slaughter in the other room,—the table upset,—the bloody cloth,— the dead man's sword,—the money,—and my memorandum, which I forgot to remove. His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. “Loneliness,” she said, “is a luxury which I never permit myself.
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