They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. “I was surprised, I admit,” he said. And all to find that picture of Mary Remenham. “It was poison—why not?” she answered. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. ‘But you are idiot.
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