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She bound a scarf tightly round the place where the blood seemed to be coming from. He will not come. The well of tears in her eyes was dry. She exhaled, feeling the tension drain from her shoulders and arms. ‘Imbecile. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. ” “But it changes things. “Well,” she said, “good-night, father.
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