There were dark rims under her eyes, soft now with unshed tears. 265 The madness crept around her like smoke under a door. ‘Point it at me. Anybody in pain had only to call to him. A remittance man. Only sat, staring at him, a puzzled look in her face. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat.
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