"Vat ish it, Mishter Vild?" inquired Mendez. ‘In fact, I’ve never met anyone who goaded me to so much violence. There would be no moon. Where can we sit down and talk?” He led her across the room towards a window recess, in which a tall, fair young man was seated with an evening paper in his hand. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. Between him and the beach stood the sum of six hundred dollars.
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