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. He seemed wholly insensible to the rain, though it presently descended in torrents, and continued his search as ardently as before. It was a society column about the richest men in the world and their lavish parties. “Can’t you believe me? I am Meysey Hill.
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