Already she knew that she was overstaying her welcome. There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight. All at once her heart began to patter queerly. “John, don’t!” she cried. It seemed to show a want of affection, to be a deliberate and unmerited disregard, to justify the reprisal of being hurt.
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