For her mother to betray her seemed inevitable, but the betrayal seemed worse than her fate. ‘You knew her well, Miss Mary?’ Mrs Ibstock turned at the window. Perhaps because I don’t know. His face was very serious. By instinct. I never intended it to be anything but a short story, for I had never completed even the shortest of stories unless forced to in grammar school. One of the shutters was a trifle damaged, letting in added light.
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