’ ‘Like your father,’ Gerald put in deliberately. The blood temporarily halted to her brain, Michelle slept peacefully again. During the week, her uniform was the blue and white scrubs of a nurse, the job she had suffered at for twenty-seven years. Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. A bowl of roses, just brought by Ann Veronica, adorned the communal dressing-table, and Ann Veronica was particularly trim in preparation for a call she was to make with her aunt later in the afternoon. She still kicked herself for it. By and by he ventured to peer into this window. They used the rope—not that a rope was at all necessary, but because Ann Veronica’s exalted state of mind made the fact of the rope agreeably symbolical; and, anyhow, it did insure a joint death in the event of some remotely possibly mischance.
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