And yet—you millionaires should really, I think, cultivate the art of discrimination. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. Nature is a mother; her sympathies have always been feminist, and she has tempered the man to the shorn woman. Before a word could be said, however, a slight noise was heard in the chimney, and Jack with his irons on descended from it.
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