Where the stuff came from was always a mystery. Annabel seated herself in an easy chair and determined to wait for her sister’s return. Gerald perhaps would know how to find him. She passed him silently as she dropped Michelle’s dried corpse into the open clay pit awkwardly, like a discarded doll. This salute of his—actually the first she could remember—while it did not disturb her, began to lead her thoughts into new channels of speculation. . People sat in unusual pews, and a wide margin of hassocky emptiness intervened between the ceremony and the walls. . A crutch, with a silver handle, stood by her side, proving the state of extreme debility to which she was reduced. She had denied it with vigor, and here she was! She did not so much exhaust this general question as pass from it to her insoluble individual problem again: “What am I to do?” She wanted first of all to fling the forty pounds back into Ramage’s face. In the discussion there was the oddest mixture of things that were personal and petty with an idealist devotion that was fine beyond dispute.
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