Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. ’ ‘Ah, but there’s the little matter of your presence here,’ said Gerald on a note of apology. Wood heard the cry. 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. ” “You came—here!” he repeated, vaguely.
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