Whenever you grow impatient with her, remember the folly of her father. “Dear husband,” she murmured. And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—“Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights” in his company. He will be hanged—hanged—hanged.
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