I have a weapon—a knife—and if you attempt to open the door, will plunge it to my heart. Will you read to me? I am tired; and the sound of your voice makes me drowsy. She was my first love. ‘Thought you were going to break in here,’ he said, in an impatient whisper. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction.
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