It would be swindling. The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. “Shit happens, John. ‘And I don’t mind telling you it goes agin’ the grain with me to let you go free and all, missie. " With no little effort—for the right words had a way of tumbling back out of reach—he marshalled his phrases, and as he uttered them, closed his eyes to lessen the possibility of a break. She told her husband that she wished her nothing more than her own death.
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