Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. 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. You’ll need that. "No"—as if her thoughts were elsewhere. It was a purse. Hill’s first night back amongst us, too. The parlour was cluttered but cosy. This hand consigned him to destruction, but another was stretched forth to save him. She feared he might take her tears as a sign of weakness.
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