I’ve loved her for two years, I love her now. Mary Remenham had passed on her every feature to the daughter whose advent had taken her from this world. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. She descended the stairs, and found herself at last in the street—alone. ‘I cannot possibly shoot a lady, you know. Her neck was smeared with red and remorse flooded him.
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