As time went on, she began to think Martha had been mistaken. To the poor carpenter it seemed an endless distance. She had become unashamed of her nudity, altogether unfocused on her appearance. He died in the war. Standing before a mirror set on a dresser between the windows, two hands frozen in the act of adjusting a wide-brimmed hat on her head, stood a lady in a dark riding habit, her startled features turned towards the door. “He is quiet only this minute,” she said to the official. She observed a man walking on the opposite side of the way and looking toward her.
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