The atmosphere was 46 strained and deathly quiet at the dining room table. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. Pierre. Piercing through every crevice in the clothes, it, in some cases, tore them from the wearer's limbs, or from his grasp. He caught the elderly dame’s eye, throwing her a desperate message.
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