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Whatever happened she need never return to that possibility. ‘Shocked you, have I? We weren’t mealy-mouthed in my day, my boy. It was his heart. They were in different key, they had a different timbre. Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. A black silk furbelowed scarf covered her shoulders; and over the kincob gown hung a yellow satin apron, trimmed with white Persian. ‘Well?’ he uttered between heavy breaths. ‘Read that,’ and threw the telegram at me, so that it went into the tureen.
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