" "I'm sorry I can't indulge you," replied her master, a little piqued. His large, coarse lips drew wider apart. ‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. I believed that she was my wife, or she would have been safe from me. But you,” he continued, moving imperceptibility a little nearer to her, “you are mine. I miss her a lot.
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