. She succumbed to cancer of the breast at age forty-three, it was slow and wasting. She wished her father and aunt would not enjoy their dinner with such quiet determination. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. "Thanks," he said, holding out a thin white hand. “You look nice today, Lucy.
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