One night, she drew close to him in bed, trying to warm herself by embracing his back. "What's the matter with the man?" demanded Wild. ‘Imbecile. ‘You don’t favour her, bar the black hair. A film of dust lay upon it; the ink marks were ancient. 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.
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