You must forgive the poet’s license I take. ‘Well, nothing,’ uttered her betrothed crossly, before Gerald could answer. The flat was apparently empty. “He must never know,” she would whisper to herself, “he must never know. And my wife won’t live with me for reasons that I think most women would consider sound. On coming to himself, he found he had been wrapped in a blanket and put to bed with a couple of hot bricks to his feet. Something in her lack of embarrassment irritated him. “Well,” she achieved at last.
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