She hated the manor. She had made her way since then a little further into the heart of life. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. The couple reappeared from behind the curtains, both visibly shaken. “What’s going on with you?” John asked inquisitively, looking down at her abdomen. In the periphery of her vision, she saw the door pulled back.
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