“My husband!” she laughed a little derisively. A creature of convenience, she could have cared less if her children were carried away by drunkards on the street. That her husband was not touching her anymore grew to be like a disease, something to be cured. He was sitting back from the table now, with one arm over the back of his green chair and the other resting on the little table. He'd never forgive you. She had removed her hat and utterly disarranged her already unruly black locks by running agitated fingers through them. “—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. It makes me desire life beyond measure.
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