Damn! I’ve splashed. It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband. ” She could have handled ten times the weight, and hoisted him on her back and carried him too. Everything in this world changed—except human folly. He knew that tragedy was as blind as justice, that it struck the child and the grown-up impartially. It could not be she who had done this. The postilion obeyed, and dashed off as hard as his horses could gallop along the beautiful road leading to Neasdon and Willesden, just as the serving-men made their appearance. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages.
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