I demand it as a right. The man who staggers, whose face is flushed, whose attitude is either noisily friendly or truculent, has some chance; liquor bends him eventually. I always told you some accident would happen. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty. For it was but logical that she would seek a divorce on the ground that she had unknowingly married a fugitive from justice. “I heard nothing,” he declared, “and my ears are good. She wanted to stay where she was; but tears were dangerous; the more she wept, the weaker she would become defensively. Her lips were dry and cracked.
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