“Anna of course would not accept any money from us,” she continued. That her husband was not touching her anymore grew to be like a disease, something to be cured. "Begone, wretch!" cried the mother, stung beyond endurance by his taunts; "or I will drive you hence with my curses. My nerves were in rags. “I don’t think you realize,” Ann Veronica began again, “that I am rather a defective human being. " It was curiously like the intermittent murmur of the surf, those weird Sundays, when her father paused for breath to launch additional damnation for those who disobeyed the Word. He was in a curious state of desperation.
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