She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity. The effort to maintain her self-control was almost superhuman. After all, he had the means of setting this tormenting doubt at rest. I’m a hard young woman. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago.
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