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. His hair is oddly streaked with gray —I might say a dishonourable gray. “Will you help me?” he asked. ‘It is you who is the fool,’ she threw at him, whipping round again. “But who’s going to pay for the room?” “I’ve got money,” said Ann Veronica.
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