"Now—begin. What was the wench at? Yet he could not maintain this stand off forever. It’s so different from what one has been led to expect. He was a little embarrassed. In the rush of commuters he did not see her boarding his train. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. His movements became quicker, and she made grinding motions with her hips that began to please her as well. I want him as my friend. “But I am your husband,” he said. The honey on his tongue turned to ashes. What other reason could there be? It’s more complex, but it’s better. She did not want particularly to know what had caused his agony, what had driven him back to the old coat.
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