“She”, you say. A terrible spectacle was presented to the young man's gaze:—the floor deluged with blood—the mangled and lifeless body of Mrs. Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. Good looks, with a melancholy cast, always drew sentimental females. The hand which the man had been holding hung limp and nerveless at her side. All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin. It was impossible. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. Her eye met his four inches away, and his was glaring, immense, and full of resolution, a stupendous monster of an eye.
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