“She wasn’t sane, my wife. 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. After all, it is not long since that a Catholic nun in this country would have had to remain in hiding. There must be something, one feels, in ideas that achieve persistently a successful resurrection. And Pottiswick, of course. Suddenly the Wastrel took hold of the edge and flung the table aside.
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