‘Very well,’ he said, lowering his own weapon. He gurgled as if trying to communicate. Perhaps marriage hurt. Her natural instincts reasserted themselves. I was visiting the royal family, as they sought me for a tutor for their sons over the summer. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. She looked at the white ankle socks on her feet and was reminded simultaneously of her pajama outfit and the suitcase that still lay underneath the bed.
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