At luncheon, on the third day, a thick-set man with a blue jaw smiled across his table at her. ‘I know,’ said Prudence Sindlesham, sympathy in her tone. It was apparent, and then it faded into the quality of an inevitable necessity. A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall. You are not my husband. The ledge, along which he crawled, was about a foot wide.
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