He wasn't satisfied with an assured income from the paper-mills your grandfather left us. It is that, is it not?” “No,” he answered readily. And I have no more the pistol. With an open hand, he slapped her face. He began shoveling dirt over the bodies. She wouldn't be able to pass by anywhere without folks turning their heads. Why didn’t I die? Why does God hate me so? Why does He not want me? I didn’t die because I’m weak, because I am cursed! I hate this poisoned world! But most of all.
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