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There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. A stack of chimneys, on the house above them, had yielded to the storm, and descended in a shower of bricks and stones. Women never throw themselves into each other's arms; they calculate the distance and the damage perfectly. " "Do you mock me?" cried Jack, levelling a pistol at him. It was the gallows.
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