"Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. You know—I wish I could roll my little body up small and squeeze it into your hand and grip your fingers upon it. I will not talk to you about Miss Pellissier or her affairs. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait.
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