“Happened! Oh, many things,” she declared indolently. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. I still have a cross stitch she made for me of a little fairy sitting on a daffodil. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. ‘Yes, I thought you’d say that.
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