The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. Happy Birthday, then. Her eyes were dilated— fixed in a horrified stare at the parting in the curtains which hung before the window. Upon this young fellow's face there were no wrinkles, only shadows, in the hollows of the cheeks and under the eyes. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town.
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