Gin Lane's the nearest road to the churchyard. She heard the ocean in the distance, waves crashing on the beach, high tide. At night she would turn it in her fingers like a rosary bead. Sheppard raised her hand, and the malediction trembled upon her tongue. The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. They have rescued the child.
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