Returning to the churchyard, he walked round it; and on the western side, near a small yew-tree discovered a new-made grave. And here she was—in a mess because it had been impossible for her to avoid leaning upon another man. ‘Well she does,’ insisted Miss Froxfield impenitently, and turned to Gerald. “Now isn’t this nice!” that lady exclaimed. Why didn’t I die? Why does God hate me so? Why does He not want me? I didn’t die because I’m weak, because I am cursed! I hate this poisoned world! But most of all. My wife—killed me. ’ ‘Tchah! Better a doubtful welcome here than a confounded French convent. There’s nothing a girl can do that isn’t sweated to the bone.
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