No amount of scrubbing could remove the stains, the blood of an unknown man she had stolen from the scene of a car accident, a stupid drunk with no license who had wrapped his Chevy truck around a very large oak tree. Still, one never could tell. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. He told me with a coarse nervous laugh. The doctor turned quickly and made for the door, which he opened and shut gently because he was assured that Ruth was listening across the hall for any sign of violence. “Tell him to drive—anywhere,” she exclaimed. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. She has even found them accommodation in the house where she is putting up herself. Unless women are never to be free, never to be even respected, there must be a generation of martyrs. The Widgett method of thought puzzled her weakly rhetorical mind. There was some justification for her annoyance, for negotiation of the secret passage demanded either a stout heart, or a desperate one.
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