“But I am your husband,” he said. She came to her one day and pulled on her apron. He embraced her small body in his arms, kissing her forehead over and over. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers. “—but this cannot be.
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