“Anna!” she repeated. ‘Bête,’ she flung at him. She did not see the metal pole swing toward the back of her skull, nor did she feel her own blood spoiling her light hair after the dull crack of metal broke her flesh. Even if you didn’t know it. Clear water gave away to gray as she waded deeper, feeling her slippers on rock. And then scratched it out and wrote instead, “Gérard”.
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