Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. “I murder people, John. “Who is there to care and—John. My husband, he is cruel and wicked, and—and entirely undistinguished. A little love from him would be enough. ’ ‘Oh, don’t I? What do you have under all those petticoats, a holster?’ ‘But yes, and they are empty.
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