Her companion was a portly handsome man, also dressed in a full suit of the deepest mourning, with the finest of lace at his bosom and wrists, and a sword in a black sheath by his side. There are sentimental and traditional deferences and reverences, I know, between father and son; but that’s just exactly what prevents the development of an easy friendship. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. Rubbishy novels and pernicious rascals. I've got to know why. I've seen many cases like it. My late husband, I mean. We’ve deserted the posts in which we found ourselves, cut our duties, exposed ourselves to risks that may destroy any sort of social usefulness in us. This morning I met him at the dock, and he wouldn't take the other fifty.
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