“I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. He was in misery; he was paying for last night's debauch. ‘But if you must fight so furiously, I don’t see how I can promise not to do it again. Free! All the fine ecstasy, without the numbing terror. He says only that he must tie up all the loose ends. “And yet,” he said, “you bid me talk cheerfully, or not at all. ‘He don’t mean you no harm. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. But his grief was of short duration. As she learned more and more of his knowledge, she began to realize how much faith and trust he invested in her.
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