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"Prove!" retorted Jen sharply, "simply that it was dropped there by that black fiend after she had killed Maurice." "You'll find out when it happens," she replied, over her shoulder. "They never know themselves till the last moment. The day classes are tame—just a speech when you turn in your candy or some such mild diversion, but the night life is more sporting, and they may put you through a course of sprouts, but they're good-natured idiots on the whole. None of us are as outrageous as we seem." "That's a pity, major. By the way, I questioned Dr. Etwald about the matter, and he is of opinion that the man was stunned by a blow on the head.".
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Jen, who was now looking old and broken down, agreed with a sad shake of his gray head. That it was a crime he was certain, for there was no reasonable idea to suppose that Maurice had committed suicide. He had left for Deanminster hardly three hours before, full of health and spirits; and now he was dead. A dead body, a lonely road--all the evidence of an atrocious assassination having been committed, and not one trace of the assassin. Undoubtedly the twice-uttered cry had come from Maurice, and as Jen had raced out of the house after the first time he heard it, he must have reached his boy almost immediately after he died; before, so to speak, the body had time to grow cold. Yet the strange part of the affair was that the body was cold, and that there did not seem to be any wound whereby the murder could have been achieved. "That is no matter," replied her mother, coldly. "You must marry him." "By means of its odor?".
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