After the first violent outbreak of grief had in some degree subsided, Thames addressed him. The looming face was 71 over her own once again, and arms as strong as iron bars held her down. The sky beyond was a surreal color of pink that reminded her of the windows she had once been entranced by at the castle chapel, their leaden lines depicting old religious stories and sufferings. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen.
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