He passed, and came loitering back and stood beside her, silently looking into her face. Whisky kills him suddenly; it does not sap him gradually. She stole the opportunity to peer at his departing figure from the closed curtains of the front room window, his shoulders slumped forward, his posture and his ego slightly deflated. They began the evening like usual, driving down highways and byways. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. But she found an unknown lady’s discarded garments, and selected some of those that she tried on, sending Kimble off down the secret passage to load them onto the horse she had borrowed—unbeknownst to its owner—from Father Saint-Simon.
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