There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight. “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. He embraced her small body in his arms, kissing her forehead over and over. “Perhaps.
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