Her anger parlayed with her confusion, as she realized that the new marriage was about as optional as the first one and her hunger was growing inside her like a weed. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. Wood was heard without, angrily demanding admittance. “Turned out to be an impostor, too. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. When he beheld Jack he uttered a deep groan.
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