To return was impossible,—to raise himself certain destruction. The petals have fallen—the red petals we loved so. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. And so bitterly did the carpenter reproach himself with his neglect, that he resolved, at all risks, to go back in search of it. ‘What, and miss getting myself murdered?’ ‘She said she wouldn’t murder you.
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