The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. I should think, Anna, that your own sense—er—of propriety would enable you to see this. It was the only time she had ever hit him, punched him right in the stomach like one of his favorite Three Stooges episodes. A murmur ran through the assemblage, by several of whom Jack was recognised. “Yes,” she said, very faintly. “Idiots!” she said, when she heard this pandemonium, and with particular reference to this young lady with the throaty contralto next door.
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