” Anna glanced up. “Mine is a primitive and unstudied manner. Which is the nearest way to the river?" "Why, it's an awkward road to direct you," returned Jonathan. 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. His five o’clock shadow was bristly against her fingers. "The gentleman is a stranger to me, Poll," replied the woollen-draper, with increased embarrassment.
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