He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. Darrell. She wet some absorbent cotton with alcohol and refreshed his face and neck. At length, I shall ascertain my name. If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. I found it on the beach, just sitting there nestled inside a piece of driftwood.
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