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. "I've spoken. "Oh, nothing—nothing," returned Mrs. It’s a tremendous blow, of course—but it doesn’t kill me. Lucy looked at the stains on the threadbare carpeting to distract herself, embarrassed to her core. My wife—killed me.
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