“And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. It was the beginning of June. She rose to the fire to stoke it. It’s all right. She imagined descending the stairs, hearing Mike’s uproarious laughter as she peeked around a vacant corner with a lump in her throat. ‘Don’t put me at the necessity of marrying the abominable little wretch. Say I will come to him. Then he entered her passionately, riding her with exquisite precision. She knew now that he never would. He allowed his voice to drip with sympathy.
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