Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. While he thus vented his rage, the door again opened, and Quilt Arnold rushed into the room, bleeding, and half-dressed. The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word. Would you stand by me—and her?” “My dear Nigel!” she exclaimed. \"Lucy?\" He called her as she turned. He recoiled from the sting.
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