Daily contact with actual human beings all the more inclined her toward the imaginative. The satisfaction of cheating Death again. ‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. Pah!’ She flounced about and, crossing to the bed, plonked down on it, pointedly averting her face and resting the large pistol in her lap. The more she disentangled the lines of her situation the deeper grew her self-disgust. Such was the simple code that displayed itself in all his thoughts.
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