She could not go to him with a preachment against strong drink; she knew from experience that such a plan would be wasted effort. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. "I have killed you," cried Jack, endeavouring to staunch the effusion of blood from her breast.
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