As he passed along the main thoroughfare, he heard his own name pronounced, and found that it was a hawker, crying a penny history of his escapes. “I hate you because you are the Devil! Rot in Hell!” She was shocked at her own accusation, how she had savored the words. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. Marina had retired to bed, drinking wine slowly, sleeping when she was not drinking. " "That's frank enough," the doctor admitted astonishedly.
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