She stared out of the paned glass window, watching the trees being blown bare by the gale force. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. Wood,—Winifred fainted in the arms of a female attendant,—and Wood standing beside them almost in a state of distraction. Socks and shoes were harder to find, and she ended up wearing men’s athletic tube socks and a pair of dust caked flip-flops that had sat forlornly in Locker 49 since 1978. Next to the executioner stood his wife—the former Mrs. Though the starling was more than two feet above the level of the water, he alighted with his little charge—which he had never for an instant quitted—in safety upon it.
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