He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. She seemed to be making some sort of inventory. The gardens were tidy and geometric, each avenue with a different purpose: flowers for cutting, herbs, brightly colored vegetables. It came to Ann Veronica that life was wonderful beyond measure. “And besides,” said Ann Veronica, sweeping that aspect aside, “what could I do? A boy sails out into a trade or profession.
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