I thought my sister and her murdered husband dragged me hither, to this very room, and commanded you to slay me. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. "Ah!" he exclaimed, as the painting was turned towards him. “I detest amateurs. See paragraph 1. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered.
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