" "And you must have risked much to obtain it, my love. Then she looked up at Brendon. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. She read on and on, now thrilled by the swiftly moving drama, now enraptured by the tender passages of love. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. It would be too mortifying. “What I mean is. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. But—” The tired woman raised her eyebrows in mild protest. Some man! And to conclude it all was the figure of her father in the doorway, giving her a last chance, his hat in one hand, his umbrella in the other, shaken at her to emphasize his point.
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