Muttering something to himself, he appeared to be telling upon his fingers the advantages and disadvantages of some scheme he had in contemplation. “What do you think of that farce?” he exclaimed bitterly. He met her eyes with his fiery black gaze. Why didn’t I die? Why does God hate me so? Why does He not want me? I didn’t die because I’m weak, because I am cursed! I hate this poisoned world! But most of all. Her soul was full of the sense of disaster. What was she going to do? One main idea possessed her: she must get away from home, she must assert herself at once or perish. You see, I—I am a woman worshipper. “I hope,” said Miss Stanley, with dignity, and turned doorward with features in civil warfare.
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