Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. She were that miserable. The fact that it was her trusted friend making illicit love to her remained, in spite of all her effort, an insignificant thing in her mind. She felt the whack from about six feet away, kitty corner. “It’s no sort of good, Ann Veronica, pretending one does believe when one doesn’t. A little Madeira seemed to recover her enough to resume the discussion. You can live just about how you like.
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