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. “Good luck! Good luck!” She waved from the window until the bend hid him. Work becomes distasteful; one thinks of holidays. The fact is I was so glad to see you again that it never occurred to me that a little discretion might be advisable. For all that she was of exceptional intellectual enterprise, she had never yet considered these things with unaverted eyes.
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