She was young and bright, little to no make-up except for lip-gloss, long, straight, glossy reddish blonde hair slightly past her shoulders. But God did not put you next door. “She wasn’t sane, my wife. Supper was spaghetti and Italian sausage that night. I did what I could to comfort her but she died in terrible pain. “I wish,” she said, “that you would leave off looking at me as though I were something grisly. “Do you mind very much?” He shook his head. ‘Anyhow, never mind that now. .
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