“She’s my wife,” the man muttered. His mind was filled briefly with psychic images of a charnel house that danced like a spider in his head. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. Befuddle yourself, if you want to. Hearing the distant shouts, these fellows rushed down to the entrance of the court, and arrived there just as Jack passed it. Later, she understood his reasons; and it had now become habit.
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