Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. “Yes. ‘Be quiet, man,’ snapped Hilary, watching the Frenchman go by with the lad after him. I am the cause of his ill-usage. Gray and tranquil world! Amazing, passionless world! A world in which days without meaning, days in which “we don’t want things to happen” followed days without meaning—until the last thing happened, the ultimate, unavoidable, coarse, “disagreeable. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. She listened, listened intently for several minutes.
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