He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. My late husband, I mean. When he said, “Let’s go and see the wart-hog,” she thought no one ever had had so quick a flow of good ideas as he; and when he explained that sugar and not buns was the talisman of popularity among the animals, she marvelled at his practical omniscience. She visualized him as in a policeman’s uniform and quite impassive.
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