“We are only in the dawn of the Age of Friendship,” he said, “when interest, I suppose, will take the place of passions. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. ‘Leonardo again,’ he growled. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture. Part 7 That was two days before Christmas Eve.
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