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She came to her one day and pulled on her apron. The glass in the windows was broken—the roof unthatched—the walls dilapidated. Go away now, there’s a good lad. She stared at him and thought the words, “My husband, my husband. Men of action by the scarlet coats with their grey facings—insignia of the county militia. 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.
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