It was supposed he was drowned in crossing the river, as his body had never been found. The inn was a military haunt. “You see, it comes after all,” she continued, “from certain original convictions which have become my religion. You are not my husband. Every rule is against me—Why did I let you begin this? I might have told—” “I don’t see that you could help—” “I might have helped—” “You couldn’t. “What makes you ask such a question, Vee?” she said. Call her Miss Pellissier, eh? I tell you she’s my wife, and I’ve got the certificate in my pocket. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. It was 1582.
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