CHAPTER XIII. For each costume she had devised a suitable form of matrimonial refusal. She released her clutch on it as, dizzy with exhaustion, she leaned against the back of the pew and closed her eyes, her fingers grasping out automatically for support. A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks. Their faces had bite marks that were hers. My husband, he is cruel and wicked, and—and entirely undistinguished. “Listen to me. He jumps the words out of your mouth; he takes hold of what you have to say before you have had time to express it properly. That she was provoked by his interference was obvious.
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