" "My death will lie at your door," remarked Jackson to the carpenter. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. Without care he will die. Then she examined with curiosity some knick-knacks upon a small round table by her side. He lifted her from the floor. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper.
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