She stared at him and thought the words, “My husband, my husband. . Burn your palette and your easel. I should have gotten out of here months ago!” She opened the passenger side and reclined in the bucket seat. Nevertheless there came a residuum of expostulations. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. “Thanks, Mister McCloskey.
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