She sat in a chair in the parlour and regarded the darkening sky through the small casement window. She washed her face twice after making smudgy eyeshadow and lipstick errors. She found the silence comforting, as old people often do. "Because it's not like you," was her answer. The one nearest to her, which must lead to the library. My wife—killed me. we’ll stop by the Amoco on Maple.
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