"To paint your portrait," answered the jailer. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. He would discuss something she had been reading, and he would give her some unexpected angle, setting a fictional character before her with astonishing clearness. He left the room, presumably to sleep elsewhere, but the only other room with a fire was the servant’s quarters. How dreary it all looks.
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