" "Robbed him!" screamed the widow. But, finding the cellar-door open, concluded he had got out that way. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. She drank and drank until his body was a lifeless husk, as light as a mannequin, virtually hollow of all but the fluid in his bones. It is a matter of degree. “There is my aunt,” she said.
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