“You belong to me,” he said fiercely; “the marriage certificate is in my pocket. In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. I can’t imagine what possessed you, Veronica. Take, if you please, your own pistol. He dodged the boot this time, and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody pulp. I'll bet you haven't given her a bucket of paint in three years. ’ ‘Indeed, I’m beginning to think so,’ he said ruefully. It is no more a murder, but a duel, you understand.
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