Since their names were
coupled, though, since he was her declared favourite, where was the
particular necessity to proclaim it to the rank and file from the
housetops, the fact, namely, that he had shared her bedroom which came
out in the witnessbox on oath when a thrill went through the packed court
literally electrifying everybody in the shape of witnesses swearing to
having witnessed him on such and such a particular date in the act of
scrambling out of an upstairs apartment with the assistance of a ladder
in night apparel, having gained admittance in the same fashion, a fact
the weeklies, addicted to the lubric a little, simply coined shoals of
money out of. Whereas the simple fact of the case was it was simply a
case of the husband not being up to the scratch, with nothing in common
between them beyond the name, and then a real man arriving on the scene,
strong to the verge of weakness, falling a victim to her siren charms and
forgetting home ties, the usual sequel, to bask in the loved one's
smiles. The eternal question of the life connubial, needless to say,
cropped up. Can real love, supposing there happens to be another chap in
the case, exist between married folk? Poser.
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