A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word. “If my own mother was alive,” sobbed Ann Veronica, “she would understand. John turned toward the short staircase as she alit upon the first creaky step. Ruth loved him. ” Chapter XIV “THIS IS MY WIFE” Anna, notwithstanding her momentary fright in the middle of the day, was in high spirits. “Time for my Patience,” she said.
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