Indeed, she did not want to think of him as loving her. 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. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. She could even think of what had happened. “Heavens, look at the time!” she exclaimed.
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