She wondered occasionally why his mind needed so much distraction. Was the situation so desperate that he could not pack his best things? She had packed lightly, not wanting to weigh down the carriage they would travel in. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. “I am sure, Anna,” she said, “I do not see why we should conceal the truth from you. ‘Grace à dieu, he breathes still. " Mrs. ” She shook her head gently. ’ ‘And you are of a disposition entirely untruthful,’ retorted Gerald.
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