She dressed rapidly and left the theatre without a word to any one. The material cares of life hang about your neck like a millstone. She snatched about in her mind. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. “And all the rest of it perhaps is a song. My agent is here, and he has brought his contract for me to sign. There will be no more children in this house, not ever! And if anyone ever tries bringing children into our house again, I shall kill the lot of them. Marvel held her handkerchief to her eyes, and appeared in great distress. I keep my finger on the pulse of things. ‘Not yet, madame. I killed him, Nigel.
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