Diane did not hear the footsteps on her brick patio or the audible click of the back door lock being compromised. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. "Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. Stanley’s pace slackened. .
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