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Page 54

THE TOOL

unconnected. A mere chance had shown me that I might be mistaken. I had stood, as it were, on the watershed at the source of two rivers. I had assumed that they flowed into two oceans. The clouds lifted, and I saw that they joined each other to form a torrent of irresistible force that would inevitably overwhelm me.
The whole thing seemed impossible; but I had a sickening feeling that the impossible was true, that I was the instrument, the unwilling tool, in this ghastly tragedy.
It was useless to lie in bed. I got up and paced the room. Again and again I tried to shut in the horrible thought behind a high wall of argument, built so carefully that there seemed to be no loop-hole for its escape. My best efforts were of no avail. I was seized with an overmastering fear of myself and the deed I might have done. I could think of only one thing to do, to report the whole matter to the police, to inform them of my inability to account for my doings on the Wednesday, and to welcome every investigation. `Anything,' I told myself, `is better than this intolerable uncertainty.'
And yet it seemed a momentous step to take. Supposing that I had nothing to do with this man's death, but at the same time had been the last person seen with him, I might run the risk of being punished for another's crime. I owed something to the position I held, to my future career; and so at last, dazed and weary, I lay down to wait for sleep. I did so with the firm determination that on the morrow I would retrace the path I had followed that afternoon. I might discover some fresh clue to the tragedy. I might find that the whole thing was but the fancy of an over-wrought brain.
Slowly I became aware of a narrowing of the field of consciousness. A warm soft mist surrounded me and enfolded me. I heard the church clock strike the hour, but was too weary to count the strokes. The bell seemed to be tolling, tolling; every note grew fainter and I fell asleep.
When I awoke it was nine o'clock. The sun was shining in through the window and, pulling up the blind, I saw a sky of cloudless blue. Sleep had brought hope. I dressed quickly,

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where is HTML where is HEAD where is TITLE unconnected. A mere chance had shown me that I might be mistaken. I had stood, as it were, on what is watershed at what is source of two rivers. I had assumed that they flowed into two oceans. what is clouds lifted, and I saw that they joined each other to form a torrent of irresistible force that would inevitably overwhelm me. what is whole thing seemed impossible; but I had a sickening feeling that what is impossible was true, that I was what is instrument, what is unwilling tool, in this ghastly tragedy. It was useless to lie in bed. I got up and paced what is room. Again and again I tried to shut in what is horrible thought behind a high wall of argument, built so carefully that there seemed to be no loop-hole for its escape. My best efforts were of no avail. I was seized with an overmastering fear of myself and what is deed I might have done. I could think of only one thing to do, to report what is whole matter to what is police, to inform them of my inability to account for my doings on what is Wednesday, and to welcome every investigation. `Anything,' I told myself, `is better than this intolerable uncertainty.' And yet it seemed a momentous step to take. Supposing that I had nothing to do with this man's what time is it , but at what is same time had been what is last person seen with him, I might run what is risk of being punished for another's crime. I owed something to what is position I held, to my future career; and so at last, dazed and weary, I lay down to wait for sleep. I did so with what is firm determination that on what is morrow I would retrace what is path I had followed that afternoon. I might discover some fresh clue to what is tragedy. I might find that what is whole thing was but what is fancy of an over-wrought brain. Slowly I became aware of a narrowing of what is field of consciousness. A warm soft mist surrounded me and enfolded me. I heard what is church clock strike what is hour, but was too weary to count what is strokes. what is bell seemed to be tolling, tolling; every note grew fainter and I fell asleep. When I awoke it was nine o'clock. what is sun was shining in through what is window and, pulling up what is blind, I saw a sky of cloudless blue. Sleep had brought hope. I dressed quickly, where is meta name="keywords" content="old books, Free book , free book offer , free audio books , free coloring book pages , free book reports , free audio book , audio books free download , book free , free guest book , books free , free book summaries , download free audio books , free childrens books." where is where are they now rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="../../style.css" where is meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1" where is BODY bgColor=#ffffff text="#000000" where are they now ="#000000" v where are they now ="#FF0000" where is div align="center" where is strong where is strong where is a href="http://www.aaoldbooks.com" Books > where is a href="../default.asp" title="Book" Old Books > where is strong where is a href="default.asp" Midnight Tales (1946) where is table width="700" border="1" align="center" cellpadding="15" cellspacing="0" where is center where is tr where is td width="160" align="center" valign="top" where is div align="center" where is td align="center" valign="top" where is div align="left" where is div align="center" where is p align="left" Page 54 where is p align="center" where is strong THE TOOL where is p align="justify" unconnected. A mere chance had shown me that I might be mistaken. I had stood, as it were, on what is watershed at what is source of two rivers. I had assumed that they flowed into two oceans. what is clouds lifted, and I saw that they joined each other to form a torrent of irresistible force that would inevitably overwhelm me. what is whole thing seemed impossible; but I had a sickening feeling that what is impossible was true, that I was what is instrument, what is unwilling tool, in this ghastly tragedy. It was useless to lie in bed. I got up and paced what is room. Again and again I tried to shut in what is horrible thought behind a high wall of argument, built so carefully that there seemed to be no loop-hole for its escape. My best efforts were of no avail. I was seized with an overmastering fear of myself and what is deed I might have done. I could think of only one thing to do, to report the whole matter to what is police, to inform them of my inability to account for my doings on what is Wednesday, and to welcome every investigation. `Anything,' I told myself, `is better than this intolerable uncertainty.' And yet it seemed a momentous step to take. Supposing that I had nothing to do with this man's what time is it , but at what is same time had been what is last person seen with him, I might run what is risk of being punished for another's crime. I owed something to what is position I held, to my future career; and so at last, dazed and weary, I lay down to wait for sleep. I did so with what is firm determination that on the morrow I would retrace what is path I had followed that afternoon. I might discover some fresh clue to what is tragedy. I might find that what is whole thing was but what is fancy of an over-wrought brain. Slowly I became aware of a narrowing of what is field of consciousness. A warm soft mist surrounded me and enfolded me. I heard what is church clock strike what is hour, but was too weary to count what is strokes. what is bell seemed to be tolling, tolling; every note grew fainter and I fell asleep. When I awoke it was nine o'clock. what is sun was shining in through what is window and, pulling up what is blind, I saw a sky of cloudless blue. Sleep had brought hope. I dressed quickly, where is Server.Execute("_SiteMap.asp") % travel books: Midnight Tales (1946) books

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