She felt a lump rise in her throat, for she had come to love living in America. “The doctor has asked me to give them my reasons—for shooting myself. Always remember that. “If I do,” he said. "Have the aromatic spirits of ammonia sent to Mr. You're a queer lad. If he adhered to this policy—to keep away from her inconspicuously—she would forget the name by night, and to-morrow even the bearer of it would sink below the level of recollection.
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