"I shall be obliged to hang him to keep him company. ” “An appetite like yours,” he said resignedly, “is fatal to all sentiment. He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. He stood a little anxious and fussy, bothered by the responsibility of her, entirely careless of what her life was or was likely to be, ignoring her thoughts and feelings, ignorant of every fact of importance in her life, explaining everything he could not understand in her as nonsense and perversity, concerned only with a terror of bothers and undesirable situations. To be ill and helpless. This time they would call it murder.
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