Their expression was so amiable, that it would have redeemed a countenance a thousand times plainer than hers. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. ‘Who’s this, then? Not soldiers again. His throat filled; he wanted to weep. I could not have spoken to her. I was raised in the Church. No matter what happened, whether the road smoothed out or became still rougher, he would always be carrying this secret with him; and each time he recalled it, the rack. ‘I was not born to this. And even she was forced to admit to herself that this last resource of hers was a slender reed on which to lean.
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