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. Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners. His only warning was a gleam of silver in the faint spill of light from the house above. “Who’s your violin teacher?” He asked. "No friend like the mother, for the babby knows no other. ’ Too late he saw his error.
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