She attacked his hair resolutely. "Write as I dictate," he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a pistol to his ear. "Because it's not like you," was her answer. "Yes, my angel, to her—rest her soul! She extorted it from me, and bound me by a solemn oath to fulfil it. As soon as he became convalescent, and all fears of his premature dissolution were at an end, Wild recommenced his rigorous treatment.
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