"I could almost forgive the wretch the injury he did me in depriving me of my poor dear wife—No, not quite that," he added, a little confused. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. ” She was frightened—his anger always did frighten her—and in her resolve to conceal her fright she carried a queen-like dignity to what she felt even at the time was a preposterous pitch. Perhaps I ought not to; but this isn't a case to fiddle-faddle over.
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