A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. “In a sort of beautiful garden-close—wearing lovely dresses and picking beautiful flowers?” “Ah! If one could!” “While those other girls trudge to business and those other women let lodgings. He pressed the bloody wrist into her mouth, and she though she could not feel it or 72 control it, she knew she was being made to swallow. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. The place was pockmarked with window-like holes everywhere—people were always 138 falling into them and breaking bones--it was for these lookouts why she had chosen it. He took her hand and looked into her eyes and spoke, divided against himself, in a voice that was forced and insincere. His eyes glowed beneath the glasses and his blue buttondown shirt was reflected in the lenses. Saturday mornings at the Beck house were routine, coffee, newspaper, bagels, and Looney Toons in no particular order.
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