He opened the drawer of the writing table. “I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. Except he was the only idiot who would stay. “My Mom never gets a good night’s sleep. Some day I'm going to paint her; but that will be when I've retired. You've got me interested and curious. “Quite particularly nice,” said her aunt.
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