“How CAN I tell him?” whispered Miss Stanley. She slipped down the perfunctory flight of stairs, short because of the home’s split-level style. She cleaned everything, wiped every surface, mopped and scrubbed every last drop of blood. She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor. Even the children jeer. The carpenter threw himself flat upon the starling to avoid the fury of the wind. She could neither speak nor move nor cry out. Marvel.
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