She had very few clear memories before a particular day in the library, when they had finished one of her first reading lessons. With the extra seventy-five pounds she had put after birthing her final son, Steven, her knees weren’t in good shape to be running up and down stairs all day. Something seemed to dredge up from the recesses of her memory and she brightened. “Life—things—I don’t think her prospects now—Hopeful outlook. I have been insulted, and cursed at, and threatened with both pistol and dagger. “Look at our affair,” he went on, looking up at her.
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