“Anna,” she cried, “you must believe me. "I thought you'd have got rid of your ill-humour by this time. What had urged her to wrench loose and fly was the guarding instinct of the good woman. She came in while he was still in the throes, conviction battling with commonsense, his own apprehension. She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol. He might call her wife, but she refused to give him his wedding night.
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