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 the rest of our lives would be together then, Ann Veronica. It was empty. He was vaguely uneasy; he knew not what about. All this while he was arranging the medicines on the stand and jotting down his instructions on a chart sheet. It had been Ann Veronica’s lot as the youngest child to live in a home that became less animated and various as she grew up.
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