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This was a long letter to Stanistreet, begun in the forh account of the iven in the fewest and plainest words possible, with

hardly a trace of the writer's natural egotism The two last sheets were

a postscript They had evidently been written at one short sitting, in

sentences that ran into each other, as if the writer had been in

passionate haste to deliver himself of all he had to say The first

sentence was a brief self-accusation, what folloas the defense--a

sinner's apologia pro vita sua He had behaved like a scoundrel to his

wife To other wo with

theainst beast, an even match While she--she was not a woman;

she was an adorable el And he,

Tyson, had never been an angel, and it was a long ti Barring his e, none of his

crione into that with

his eyes open, knowing hi wo) But that love of his

wife's was so to believe in, not to see Men were

not ht to have fallen down and

worshiped the little thing, not married her But was it his fault!

That particular crime would never have been committed if he had been left