I'll bet you haven't given her a bucket of paint in three years. She dared not look directly at him, her head obscured by a gray hoodie, she had the slumped appearance of an androgynous adolescent. “She doesn’t know. ‘How could I know that it is you?’ She peered at him in the darkness. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed.
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