Her father, her own father! She remembered now a verse from the Psalms her father had always been quoting; but now she recited it with perfect understanding. The Iron Bar. “Do you know,” she said, “that every one is remarking how ill you look. The doctor said you wrote. His face was white. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. ” Anna laid down her serviette. Husband of mine, I think we have rather overrated the emotional capacity of those—those dears.
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