“Have you not heard?” she said. I can be that man, the one I know you want. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. It was nearly one o’clock; but there were lights still in all her windows. The Chinamen raised the limp body and carried it to the hall staircase, up which they mounted laboriously. Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. “This has almost killed your father.
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