She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. “Last time I saw you,” he reminded her, “you spoke, did you not, of obtaining some employment in London. It isn't as if he were stricken with typhoid or pneumonia or something like that. As much as it killed her, she kept her mouth shut. It does not work, I still suffer madness.
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