“I hope nothing is wrong. Mr. She wondered if he was already tired of her, if he would rudely push her away as one would a prostitute. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Beneath two tall elms, whose boughs completely overshadowed the roof, stood Mr. ’ He took a pace forward, seizing the gun with one hand, while the other locked her arm so that he could forcibly wrest the weapon from her. ’ ‘I do not marry a man who makes me a threat like this,’ she flashed.
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