She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. The weather's been foul enough for the last fortnight, but I've never turned my back upon it. ‘Cajolery? This is not your style. She had to wear cream and a brown sash and a short frock and her hair down, and Gwen cream and a brown sash and a long skirt and her hair up. “The horse’s knees are broken, and I am not sure that the man is sober.
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