I am your husband, though as yet your hand has scarcely lain in mine. “I don’t think she will,” she said. To-morrow night —or rather to-night, for we are fast verging on another day—I propose to lure him out of the house by a stratagem which I am sure will prove infallible; and, then, what so easy as to knock him on the head. I wish very much that you had written before leaving Paris. One day I can be a Gothic chick, and the next day I’ll be Hitler Youth. 1. I’m sorry. CHAPTER VIII.
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