For all that, it is folly. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. Spurlock had better stick to the bungalow. She limited herself to eating once a fortnight, until she discovered that she could go without comfortably for a month. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town.
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