In privacy he read and reread it a dozen times, and eventually destroyed it by fire. On taxing his recollection, the whole circumstance rushed to mind with painful distinctness. And at length her penultimate day in Morningside Park dawned for her. She could not move. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. The transverse spars before mentioned were as slippery as ice; and the hollows between them were filled ankle-deep with water. One night she apparently fell asleep.
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