It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. “I’m not so sure. Her hair, once red, faded to a thin gray that she kept cut into a practical short bob. Forgetting her occupation in her anger, she left off bathing Darrell's wrist; and, squeezing his arm so tightly that the boy winced with pain, she clapped her right hand upon her hip, and turned, with flashing eyes and an inflamed countenance, towards her crest-fallen spouse. But here the resemblance stopped. \" added Shari. "Rowland, your violence is killing me," she returned, in a plaintive tone.
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