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“No—no more,” Jane said shrilly; “I can’t bear any more. I don’t want to know how it happened, or anything. He’s dead—that’s enough.”

“But” Milly clung sobbing to her, sobbing with sympathy and agitation.

Jane pushed her back, held her at arm’s length and looked at her with eyes that were still dry.

“You’re a good little thing, after all,” she said. “Yes—now I’ll tell you. You were quite right. It was a lie—but half of it was true—the half I told you—but I wanted you to believe the other half too. I did walk in my sleep, and I must have opened that cabinet and taken Edgar’s story out, because I found myself standing there with it in my hands. And he was dead, and Oh, Milly. I knew he was dead, of course, and yet he was there—I give you my word he was there, and I heard him say ‘Take it, take it, take it!’ quite plainly, like I’m speaking to you now. And I took it; and I copied it out—it took me nearly all night—and then I sent it to you. And I’d never have told you the truth as long as you didn’t believe me—never—never. But now you do believe me I won’t lie to you. There! Let