She had arranged for a supper of tea, a boiled egg, and some tinned peaches. That her husband was not touching her anymore grew to be like a disease, something to be cured. “Does a bear shit in the woods?” He said. He reached a silver cigar and cigarette box from the sideboard and put it before his father-in-law, and for a time the preliminaries of smoking occupied them both. “What do you think of that?” he asked. This lapse was possibly due to her apparent determination to make full protest of Hilary’s conduct. She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping. It was the moment for smiles. "Who's there?" cried Rachel. This getting up at dawn—real dawn—and working until seven was a distinct novelty. He’ll survive.
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