Her hand came up and she laced her fingers with his. There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight. Ruth was not a woman; she was a phenomenon. He wondered if the young fool had any idea of what he had drawn in this tragic lottery called marriage. She was finally dead, going to Hell. Supper was quickly served; the oldest bottle of wine was brought from the cellar; the strongest barrel of ale was tapped; but not one of the party could eat or drink—their hearts were too full. Fell to sin, did Martha. Wild is incapable of such baseness. It proved to be a human head, though with scarcely a vestige of the features remaining.
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