. ’ Martha got up with a swish of her black habit. He waited for hours after dusk but she never arrived. He was indeed still in the throes of his bewilderment. Always as black and bitter as gall. She mentally reprimanded herself to alter her own visage so as not to appear depraved. He glanced downwards at the impetuous torrent, which he could perceive shooting past him with lightning swiftness in the gloom. ” She pulled a small blue box out of the pocket of her hoodie. His wife's portrait had been removed from the walls, and the place it had occupied was only to be known by the cord by which it had been suspended. She took to listening through closed doors. . But we can’t help noticing.
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