He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. Ann Veronica was carried off her intellectual and critical feet by it altogether, and applauded and uttered cries that subsequent reflection failed to endorse. ‘What is this fate?’ ‘Un mariage of no distinction. With his foodle doo! This carpenter he had a wife, The plague and torment of his life, Who, though she did her husband scold, Loved well a woollen-draper bold.
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