‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. If he stayed in the basement apartment as was his usual habit, she would have no problem. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. She was quite tired of the stream of visitors and heard with relief the words of her newfound great-aunt, addressed to her son’s butler. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. I’ve got nothing to do for a month but think.
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