‘At me,’ she uttered, holding her own pistol high and aiming it steadily. I get the feeling that you are special, so alone, so beautiful that I must get to the bottom of you if it takes my whole life. Besides, I acted for others, and not for myself. You are my wife now and you belong to me. Shamefaced curiosities began to come back into her mind, thinly disguised as literature and art.
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