‘Poor Hilary. Her sleepless night had left her languid but not stupefied, and for an hour or so the work distracted her altogether from her troubles. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. Neither your aunt nor I have any other thought but what is best for you. If only this child were his: what good times they would have together! The thought passed on, but it left a little ache in his heart.
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