I asked him why, and he hadn’t a reason. “You underestimate your own sickness, and the ill humors that struck you may strike again. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. "Why did I want it under my pillow?" he asked. Gone off, cool as you please, and left me to manage everything. Racing, he reached it perhaps a moment or two later. She pulled, he rose to his feet. He looked around, and as he heard that deafening shout,— as he felt the influence of those thousand eyes fixed upon him,—as he listened to the cheers, all his misgivings—if he had any—vanished, and he felt more as if he were marching to a triumph, than proceeding to a shameful death. ” He followed up a line of thought. .
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