She would take the items with her; bury the items and her bloodstained clothes in one of the many sinkholes in the huge landfill/garbage dump on the south side of town. Their flitting hands were always touching. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. “So, Rhea must have known you for what you are. But I am not worthy to be any man's wife —far less his wife.
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