“Dear John,” she whispered. His back was no sooner turned, than she slipped this casket into the box. “It was poison—why not?” she answered. Never mind, I’ve got plenty. The whole affair interested him deeply. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. The coffin was lowered into the grave, and the mourners departed. ” He stopped abruptly. I know all about it.
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