It dawned upon him that he had been abominably used by Ann Veronica. "You have killed him," cried Winifred in alarm. Put him in the stocks, and there let him sleep off his drunken fit. Sometimes the music would be tender and dreamy, like a native mother's crooning to her young; sometimes it would be so gay that the flesh tingled and the feet were urged to dance; again, it would be like the storms crashing, thunderous. Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who was always less active on days when he was not around. For a long time to come that would naturally be the theme of any story he undertook to write. “It does nothing but sit there. “You will have some tea?” she asked.
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