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Chapter 37

           

           "Isupposeyouknow,"—Ibeganwithharshabruptness—"thatthesleeping-draughtstoryisapolitefiction?Youknowthatmywifepoisonedherselfintentionally?"

           Mavislookedatmewithatroubledandcompassionateexpression.

           "Ifeareditwasso—"...shebegannervously.

           "Ohthereisnothingeithertofearortohope"—Isaidwithsomeviolence—"Shedidit.Andcanyouguesswhyshedidit?Becauseshewasmadwithherownwickednessandsensualitybecauseshelovedwithaguiltylove,myfriendLucioRimânez."

           Mavisgavealittlecryasofpain,andsatdownwhiteandtrembling.

           "Youcanreadquickly,Iamsure,"—Iwenton."Partoftheprofessionofliteratureistheabilitytoskimbooksandmanuscriptsrapidly,andgraspthewholegistoftheminafewminutes;readthis—"andIhandedhertherolled-uppagesofSibyl’sdyingdeclaration—"Letmestayhere,whileyoulearnfromthatwhatsortofawomanshewas,andjudgewhether,despiteherbeauty,sheiswortharegret!"

           "Pardonme"saidMavisgently—"Iwouldrathernotreadwhatwasnotmeantformyeyes."

           "Butitismeantforyoureyes,"—Iretortedimpatiently—"Itismeantforeverybody’seyesapparentlyitisaddressedtonobodyinparticular.Thereisamentionofyouinit.

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