I received a telegram, as you know, during dinner. Five minutes ago, his butler had entered the green saloon, an austere apartment, with dark forest-green wallpaper flocked with a swirling design, and heavy mahogany furniture. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. The houses they flitted to and from were glutted with hangers-on, servant/mistresses, and errant prostitutes.
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