He’s out in Phoenix last I heard. Her fingers clutched the side of the door as though to steady herself. ’ A laugh escaped her. She ignored it until it repeated itself. But she must not laugh. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. Deep silences came between them. One from 1966, a yearbook photo reprinted in a newspaper.
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