‘At least I couldn’t say for sure. The woman I wanted was another man's wife. The boy was right. “I have signed a statement that I shot myself; bad trade and drink, both true—both true. And this great mellow place, this London, now was hers, to struggle with, to go where she pleased in, to overcome and live in. “But—” The long inconsecutive conversation by that time was getting on her nerves. She could still smell the now familiar scent of him on the girl's body in the makeshift grave. She caught at the idea. And it is your own fault that your husband dallies with me. Wood, in a taunting tone.
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