Next to the executioner stood his wife—the former Mrs. Her head felt absurdly like one of those noddling manikins in the Hong-Kong curio-shops. She, having all the confidence in the world, ripped off an end and drew out the contents—a letter and a check. She grasped at the right one, massaging where his grip had been and Gerald hoped he had not bruised her. There are two ways to go in, you understand.
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