Her husband was drinking in the tavern with the other guests. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. She kissed Cathy's soft cheek as she entered the warm kitchen. “But I am sorry,” she exclaimed. She drank and drank until his body was a lifeless husk, as light as a mannequin, virtually hollow of all but the fluid in his bones. Martin came to the stage from his section, his own violin in hand. Saint Giles's Round-house XIII.
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