He addressed her by that title, and something in the tone disturbed her. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. “Dear husband,” she murmured. ” “Well?” “Lunch! I am hungry—tragically hungry. We WERE thieves.
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