She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. After all, what can it matter? It was just to make sure. He then unlocked a cabinet, opened a secret drawer, and, lifter ransacking its contents, discovered a paper he was in search of, and a glove. Pale, flesh-colored light filtered in through the corners of the house. Warm reality was now so near her she could hear it beating in her ears. “Dear husband,” she murmured.
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