“Heavens!” she exclaimed. She had lost her nerve, and there was no more freedom in London for her that night. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. The man lingered. You’d better not have all the money on you; you had better open a small account in the postoffice and draw it out a fiver at a time. ‘Get you invited to a party where the French émigrés will be present? Nothing easier, dear boy. He will let you live if it pleases him. Her efforts were vain.
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