The dog was, in a sense, a gift of the gods. "I knew how it would be," she cried, in the shrill voice peculiar to a shrew, "when you brought that worthless hussy's worthless brat into the house. M. “I don’t have time for this. ’ ‘She?’ scoffed Martha. It was one of the secret troubles of her mind, this grotesque twist her ideas would sometimes take, as though they rebelled and rioted. And I’ve read, and thought, and guessed, and looked—until MY innocence—it’s smirched.
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