Lucy aimed the firearm at Rhea’s chest. It was such an unexpected stroke of fortune. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait. Only her ungloved fingers, and the arms in their long tight sleeves as she held the heavy gun aloft, bore any sign of stiffness. There was the motor accident, too. She turned to face him and he kissed her. ‘I have only borrowed it. .
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