Under this unnerving scrutiny, a slow flush mounted to the woman’s cheeks. Whatever he did, she was bound to scream. She traveled through back yards and quiet side streets on her way home, careful to avoid the main thoroughfares, fraught as they were with people in cars who would recognize her person or notice her dress. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. She was practically destitute of jewellery. She shuddered; the room was unfamiliar and unwelcoming. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. I don’t care. Gwen—I saw Gwen the other day, and the paint’s thicker than ever.
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