“There she lay in the parlor, her face as calm as if she had never known the harshness of brutal guardians, the agony of poison, the terrible pangs of dissolution. Death had at last given her peace, the peace which passeth understanding.”
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“There she lay in the parlor, her face as calm as if she had never known the harshness of brutal guardians, the agony of poison, the terrible pangs of dissolution. Death had at last given her peace, the peace which passeth understanding.”
The moon was in the window. The bedroom swam silver in its light. Half-past eight o’clock on October 3, 1868, and Hannah Russell lay awake, her husband Perry beside her. He slept deeply and didn’t stir, though wind shook the roof-slates and rattled the shutters and somebody rapped at the side-door.
These Dark Mountains
“There she lay in the parlor, her face as calm as if she had never known the harshness of brutal guardians, the agony of poison, the terrible pangs of dissolution. Death had at last given her peace, the peace which passeth understanding.”
