He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. “I don’t see what else I could have said,” he remarked. "And, oh! forgive me, though I can never forgive myself, for the misery I have caused you. You never can tell. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had.
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