I don't believe he is much past forty. That window there…. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. You’d make a good Devil. To appreciate it you should try rooms. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. What his head conceived his hand executed.
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