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So often as she had herself manipulated a dagger, she could not mistake the shape that pressured across her chest, or the sharp point that dug below her bosom. She cried for hours but would not scream as her mother was packed into a marble coffin. He was standing by, rating her ladyship,—who can scarcely stir from the sofa,—while I was packing up her jewels in the case, and I observed that she tried to hide a small casket from him. I am not a madman, or a pauper, or even an unreasonable person. God, how old are they now? They must be teenagers.

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