For a few days she was fascinated by the place, exploring the moldy rooms, the weird treasures hiding in forgotten trousseaus. Brown or Jones, I dare say. She threw him his car keys. The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. Your uncle—our uncle is with him. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. That’s my advice to you. “Why should one pretend?” she whispered.
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