She turned the gas up in her little sitting-room, and sank wearily into an easy chair. "Come to me!" cried the poor maniac, who had crawled as far as the chain would permit her,—"come to me!" she cried, extending her thin arm towards him. It’s these damned novels. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. She bussed his cheek with her small lips as he stood by the open door, and exited alone towards the sleeping house. He too, when she had disappeared, called a carriage.
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