You give her a daub here and there where the rust shows. That was life. There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight. He was beautiful despite the odd angle. “Suppose you call me by my proper name,” she said quietly. "It was the story of a man, so to speak, who had left his vitals in his native land and wandered strange paths emptily. She would always be waiting upon this boy, he mused. I forget.
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