“But your hair,” he gasped. And I have no more the pistol. “Shot through the lungs,” he remarked. I’m not half smart enough for the West End. It wasn’t long ago that a girl went straight from the farm to her husband, just as soon as her period came and she could make babies. I saw the motor dashed to pieces against the wall, and I saw him pitched on his head into the road. For the first time he seemed to wonder what it might be that she had to confess. She stared at him and thought the words, “My husband, my husband. Slowly and ruefully she realized why marriage was so idealized among her generations of those before her. Each became frightfully aware of the other as a plastic energetic body, of the strong muscles of neck against cheek, of hands gripping shoulder-blade and waist. Her fingers found the lump she sought and, with a little effort, she dragged out the black-wrapped foil. To die intestate was unforgiveably irresponsible.
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