Never again would he repeat that kiss; but at night when they separated, he would touch her forehead with his lips, and sometimes he would hold her hand in his and pat it. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. 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. Here was one that subtly mocked her. He seemed to be hesitating between two courses of action. “Always planning for death. Let him not bear the weight of my punishment. Only an undermaid I was then.
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