’ ‘Oh, yes I do,’ Martha said, getting up off the bed. He claimed me for his wife, and showed to every one a marriage certificate. She had carried a chair into the room veranda and had watched and listened until the night silences had lengthened and only occasionally she heard a voice or the rattle of rickshaw wheels in the courtyard. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers.
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