He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. Neither would she allow herself to feel guilty nor would she allow him to find a way into the house. She had asked to borrow his pencil out of dire necessity. Wood. “I’ve gotta go. . There was hope for me then. Her thoughts were busy with the possibilities of this break in her journey.
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