She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. The sun was rising, illuminating the trees in black as if they were drawn in ink. It was the end, she told herself, fiercely. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. The opiate has done its duty. Except for the dull eyes and the extreme pallor of his face, there was nothing else to indicate that he was deep in liquor.
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