Fool that I was to marry for beauty! I ought to have remembered that a fair woman and a slashed gown always find some nail in the way. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. A brief feeling of empathy with Pottiswick passed through him. I know he is dead. But I should certainly want to be rid of Mr. ‘Didn’t mean it, love.
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