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. Irreton. “Why on earth,” he asked, “did you hurt me like that?” Ann Veronica did her best to think she had not deliberately attempted to cause him pain. By the time I had recovered myself she had gone. She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping. Last night there had been no time. It was Annabel who spoke. I imagine that even you must realize that this is of some importance.
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