“Why should one pretend?” she whispered. Many’s the bullets I’ve dug out of fellows in my time. She went about the familiar home with a clearer and clearer sense of inevitable conclusions. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. Mr. You cannot—shall not retreat. This was in Tennessee. “Lucy, that’s horrible.
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