Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. His fingers closed upon her hand. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. It was not the type of household where one could come and go at all hours, for this she was glad. And mind, your life,—more than your life—hangs upon your choice.
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