She felt herself falling, her bile rising in her 61 throat, the cold wind spinning around her like vertigo. Still, he was puzzled because McClintock had not spoken. ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself. She did not want to go to the doctor's people; however kindly that might be, they would be only curious strangers. The glass in the windows was broken—the roof unthatched—the walls dilapidated.
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