"He's not to blame," said Jack, rising. Her husband was drinking in the tavern with the other guests. She studied her form in the full length mirror, assessed 69 her body as one would that of a prize calf, trying to see it through his eyes, through the eyes of desire. Below the window he saw two coolies carrying a coffin, which presently they callously dumped into a yawning pit. "Can you not love him?" "Love him!" echoed the widow. A town called Foster.
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