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. Mrs. "What's that?" ejaculated the ruffian, glancing uneasily towards the window. And put ‘em in little books for remembrance. Then came the javelin-men, walking four abreast, and lastly, a long line of constables, marching in the same order. She could not explain in words why they disappointed her or that she was disappointed. He'd never forgive you.
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