It is a plain case of alcoholic stupor. It’s made up of things as small as the diameter of hairs and big as life and death. She looked at me as though I were some unclean thing, as though my soul were weighted with every sin in the calendar. And when you reflect how much at heart your poor mother, whose loss we must ever deplore, had our union, you will, I am persuaded, no longer refuse me. . . Where else could she go?’ ‘And there aren’t too many of them around,’ agreed Hilary on a gloomy note.
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