” Lucy commented as the mud was smoothed around the grave site. If you do not help me to read the riddle of yourself, Annabel, I think that very soon I shall be a candidate for the asylum. Her husband had caught her leaning over a precipice into the ruins of the oubliette, and had punished her by flogging her back with a switch. The elements were wrathful as their passions. She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set.
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