It’s these damned novels. “I shot him. The walls rocked, the footrail of the bed wavered, and the girl's head had the nebulosity of a composite photograph. By the side of her plate was a small key. This was his sister, evidently in the last extremity. Clotilde pried Fritz from Lucy’s left leg where he was clinging. ‘Eh bien, does that mean that you will do it again?’ ‘Not if I can help it,’ Gerald uttered, alarmed.
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