"Of course," responded the widow, heaving a deep sigh. ‘Give me my pistol!’ Gerald shook his head, slipping the pistol into his pocket. Nothing seemed to be amiss. “And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks. S. Here and there, a building might be seen with the doors and windows driven in, and all access to it prevented by the heaps of bricks and tilesherds. Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. She thought of the marvellous beauty of skin, and all the delightfulness of living texture. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself.
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