Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. But I swear she ain’t told me nothing more, sir. 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. Ann Veronica sat back in an attitude of inattention, her eyes on a distant game of cricket, her mind perplexed and busy. Coldly she spoke, in a distinctly accented voice.
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