It is at the lodge that we stay. See paragraph 1. Since morning he had become fanatical; the atoms of common sense no longer functioned in the accustomed groove. And he, her lawful husband, dared not go to her and console her! Accursed—all of them— Enschede, Ruth, and himself. We smirk, and we’re a bit—furtive. His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged. If my Mom found out, she’d kill me. She stepped backwards.
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