She had looked forward to an explanation. May I do so to-day?” “It’s your gate,” she said, amiably; “you got it first. During this dreadful pause the wretched man felt for his sword. The thing rankled in her mind night and day. She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish. 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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