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. "Do you know what you make me think of?" "What?" "As if you had stepped out of some old family album. ” The detective thrust his notebook into his pocket. She went up-stairs and hesitated between four doors with ground-glass panes, each of which professed “The Women’s Bond of Freedom” in neat black letters. "Well, good night, Mr. ’ ‘Don’t be stuffy, Hilary,’ admonished his betrothed.
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