When she came to, she was lying with her head in Martha’s lap, and a livid bruise was forming at the point of a raging headache. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. She came to spend hours with the bastard children that the women brought, dressing and feeding the tiny ones, inventing games for the older ones. Mary is very good, but she is too nervous to be the slightest protection.
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