They sat in the windowed booth at the restaurant across from each other. This was enough for the poor widow. The crowning aspect of the incident, for her mind, was the discovery that he and her indiscretion with him no longer mattered very much. And the hunter home from the hill. “Do you play an instrument?” “I play the fiddle sometimes. He waited for an instant, wasting an encouraging smile in the imperfect light, and then shut the doors of the van, leaving the women in darkness. What do you know about her, Fred? I am interested.
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