She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight. The chamber rang with her shrieks. She saw herself in very much Vivie’s position—managing something. Immeasurable disgust possessed her. You have to marry me. Mrs.
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