He was entranced as she walked towards him. He seemed inexorable, and inscrutable as fate itself. "Your son," answered the boy. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. “Then I don’t take this as final. 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. .
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