Give me the books. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. I’m turning into a big fat cow. Aside from some loose coin and a trunk key, there was nothing in the pockets: no mail, no letter of credit, not even a tailor's label. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. I have neither father, mother, brother, sister, nor husband—I have only him. We mustn’t make it so.
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