‘I’ll get the key,’ said Roding, turning abruptly. Such ambitions as he had were stereotyped and material. She did not think for one moment what interpretation he might put upon the word “lover. A thin mist lay on the river, giving the few craft moving about in it a ghostly look. If he did resemble me, I shouldn't care about him. 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. You make me angry, and I lie. It was not in evidence here, not a sign of it.
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