But I do not need that Gérard attend. You shall not take me alive. Sheila’s own waif of a husband had objected to her airing the truth, he had even gotten the nerve to bring up the word divorce. He will be hanged—hanged—hanged. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground.
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