‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope. That her husband was not touching her anymore grew to be like a disease, something to be cured. “You are in luck, Miss Pellissier,” he declared. You are my prisoner, murderer. ’ ‘Gracious heaven, Gerald! If your dear mama could not drag you to the altar, I am hardly likely to succeed.
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