I am apparently a beast, a pig and an imbecile, too, if memory serves me. “My husband knows all. ‘And so?’ she asked. Seven hundred forty-two dollars and eighty-one cents, the sum total of her money in the world that she hid in a filigreed cigar box shelved behind her schoolbooks. It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance. This she would not endure. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. The entire place was a masterpiece of wooden carving, a design of interleaving carried throughout. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. "And the will?" he said, with forced calmness. They drove around town that night in his Buick convertible. “Can you give me any information as to this affair?” he asked. Ann Veronica said she didn’t care.
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