‘I can’t think how I’ve tolerated myself all these years. Anna was unimpressed. " Again Ruth nodded. " "I do not say that what you have done is wrong in any sense. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. 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.
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