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She was reasonably certain why. It was her foster brother Mike, on his way to the bathroom. Even on cool days the gardens were colorful and bright, with orange trees emanating sweetness and bumblebees drunkenly weaving from flower to flower. She had come to despise those who were fertile out of pure jealousy, but could not admit it to herself. “No, no,” she cried. Get you gone. ‘Poor Mary had no idea about the elopement Nicholas had undertaken,’ she told Gerald.
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