Of course, at home there would have been questions. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. Away off in the fields the bluesmocked peasants bent still at their toil. The ribald demons that infested the back of Ann Veronica’s mind urged various facetious interrogations upon her, as, for example, where the witness had acquired his prose style. "Who's there?—Pshaw! it's only the wind. I have healed and I am still your wife!\" She looked at him desperately, his eyes illuminated by firelight.
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