“Uh, I think I might, Shari. And here she was—in a mess because it had been impossible for her to avoid leaning upon another man. As time went on, she began to think Martha had been mistaken. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. "Jack," exclaimed the widow, starting up and drawing back the curtain.
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