She succumbed to cancer of the breast at age forty-three, it was slow and wasting. Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. But one must disguise oneself. She felt anger at Sebastian, anger at the thrill that she felt in her loins upon seeing him, anger at herself for never having the courage to end her own life. Poor young lady! She trembled too, and was unable to give her evidence.
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