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. "Halloa, widow!" shouted a rough voice from below, "where the devil are you?" Mrs. The houses on Snow Hill were thronged, like those in Old Bailey. As they careened into a parking space, Lucy clung to the upholstery so as not to be thrown against the front seats.
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