. She sat on the edge of the bed overwhelmed, the roses cradled in her arms. She regarded him coldly, as though wondering whether he had anything further to say. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. Next to the executioner stood his wife—the former Mrs. It seemed to her that her father was in some inexplicable way meaner-looking than she had supposed, and yet also, as unaccountably, appealing. It was a look that accorded very well with the hayloft setting that had come to mind.
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