He did not care whether the stories were accepted or not. There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight. She traveled through back yards and quiet side streets on her way home, careful to avoid the main thoroughfares, fraught as they were with people in cars who would recognize her person or notice her dress. ” “Very sad—very sad indeed,” he remarked uneasily. ‘I know her, ma’am, but I know next to nothing of her story. You have to see her to understand.
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