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. He refused. Ann Veronica’s experiences of men had been among more stable types—Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. "Why not?" "I'll tell you," cried a deep voice from the back of the bed.
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