I am a murderer. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. Her complexion was wan and faded, except where it was tinged by a slight hectic flush, that made the want of colour more palpable; her eyes were large and black, but heavy and lustreless; her cheeks sunken; her frame emaciated; her dark hair thickly scattered with gray. I must go to-night, or I shall never behold him again.
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