White rang the bell. “I can’t. “More coffee, hon?” She held her hand over the cup. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. Down there, whisky raises the very devil with white men. ‘Well, if that’s what the good Lord wants, then you’ll just have to accept it.
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