‘And I suppose I shall be obliged to endure another nonsensical tale about your husband. Marvel, then, took two iron weights, each of a hundred pounds, and placed them in the press. What had urged her to wrench loose and fly was the guarding instinct of the good woman. Since morning he had become fanatical; the atoms of common sense no longer functioned in the accustomed groove. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. She would marry him.
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