gutenberg. “I am sorry. My husband, he is cruel and wicked, and—and entirely undistinguished. To have written a short story in a week was rather a remarkable feat. They’re fairly intricate little things. ” He kissed her, and handed her into the carriage. She spied him sitting on his armless black couch, his feet splayed as he stared at his television blankly. “You, too,” he said abruptly. Instead, he could not get beyond these minor details—why she wore the dress, whence she had come, and whither she was bound. No offence, I hope. ‘Tee-ree-sa.
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