At the thought of the major, her tears redoubled and she was obliged to rip off a piece from the remnants of her already maltreated underpetticoats with which to blow her nose and soak the damp from her cheeks. As silent as she had remained about who had brought her home last night. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. “Women are mocked,” she said.
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