The assassination, as you call it, was, obviously, the vengeance of a kinsman of the injured lady, who no doubt was of good family, upon her seducer. But if I painted her as I'd like to, the natives would instantly distrust me; and I'd have to build up confidence all over again. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. ‘Ain’t my place, I know that. The house will be well rid of him, for a more idle, good-for-nothing reprobate never crossed its threshold. For hours he seemed to have pleasant dreams of open skies and airplanes, but then the dreams would disintegrate into fleshy charnel house nightmares where he could hear her calling to him through a fog. That is my way, my dear. Don’t you know I disinherited the rogue?’ ‘This we knew, milor’,’ said Valade. At night she would turn it in her fingers like a rosary bead. Even now she was dazed. He played variations on this theme for the better part of an hour. With this view, he suffered him to pass on. So am I.
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