“But I am your husband,” he said. His looks were fixed on his old benefactor. If I were a clean, free man—We’ll have to talk of all these things. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. She dragged the broken bottle across her carotid artery, creating an inch-deep gash upon her throat. Or else he was indeed obsessed. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. She was wan and white.
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