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As I was suffocating the second bum I flashed back to the day I left her: to that feverish craze I was in and to the bum who assailed me, screaming "you killed her!" and to what I did, quite out of my mind. But now, as I went out to send her that fateful letter, and remembered I had no postage, and the bum's cup had exactly enough for a stamp, killing was easier. But as I slid the coins into my wallet and glanced at her picture, I realized the lunatic was right, I have killed her!



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