Marvel held her handkerchief to her eyes, and appeared in great distress. “Agreed,” he said, “certainly,” and drew a checkbook toward him. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. “He is Annabel’s husband,” she reminded him. Everywhere else—the law, medicine, the Stock Exchange—prejudice bars us. Lucy grabbed the hand cannon, stuffing it with powder, nearly missing a swing of the sword meant for her neck. The whole story of your relationship is a fabrication.
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