Come back with me to-night. “But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself. Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. “I have a letter for him from his brother, which I was just leaving.
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