Her husband had caught her leaning over a precipice into the ruins of the oubliette, and had punished her by flogging her back with a switch. The day was sunny and pleasant, devoid of chill winds. I hate myself!” She collapsed to the floor, sobbing. Perhaps I've been mad all these years; I don't know. " "I guess what share you've had in this," whispered Austin to Mrs. His own heart was too full of melancholy foreboding. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. Aren't we funny? And just as I was beginning to lose faith in human beings, to have someone like this come along! It is almost as if she were acting a rôle, and she isn't. And life is much the same, whether taken in battle, on the couch, or by the road-side.
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