It was the bitterest moment of her life. That’s really our choice now, defy—or futility. Little Anna screamed and thrashed as she was torn from Lucy’s skirts. She had eaten little or no tea, and her mid-day meal had been worse than nothing. I have brought disgrace upon you, and I haven’t been the right sort of wife at all. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. I may want you. Walpole's order to that effect—but not before.
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