"I can't help thinking of it, Sir," answered the widow. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad. It was rude and disrespectful to raise her eyes to him, her mother had warned. She could smell the savory tinge of his sweat in the air. “Excuse me a moment. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. ” Like most men who lie but seldom, he lied well.
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