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. And she’s pluck to the backbone. It was not the type of household where one could come and go at all hours, for this she was glad. I’m that shamed to confess it, miss, but it were then I thought of Martha. O'Higgins did not confide in me.
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