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Once inside Sinclair House he followed her upstairs to the private parlour adjoining their bedroo to overcoiddiness He waited, every muscle and tendon in his body clenched

‘Sam’

She shook her head

‘It is a jest, yes?’

‘No Sam’ His voice was so hoarse he had to clear it

‘You’re Bunny?’ Her own voice rose into a squeaky whisper and he groped for humour

‘I’m most definitely not Bunny, but I am the author I meant to tell you, but’

‘You meant to tell me,’ she repeated

‘Yes, I’

‘When?’

She no longer looked shocked She looked as cold as ice, her skin leached of colour, just two sharp streaks of fireher cheekbones like war paint

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘When did you mean to tell me? When did you mean to tell me you were the author who for the past six years I have been working for? Who I am now married to When?’

‘You don’t understand I never meant to tell anyone’

‘I ae I am, for better, and at the moment for much worse, your wife I am youryour partner in this When would you have told me?’

‘Saain He needed tih He needed time to answer the question for himself before he answered it for her

‘I don’t think you meant to tell me at all Ever Did you?’ Sam demanded and he felt the heat crawl up his face and her eyes widened ‘You Are Mad Mad! And blindingly stupid As blind as a e! Did it not occur to you it would be a matter of time before I discovered the truth? At soave you away Or perhaps you intended for us to live apart? Or to do all your writing in some secret pied-à-terre? Or have a locked roos in good Gothic novel tradition?’

‘Sam, calm down’