Nor is Theresa, or even Thérèse. “Why would she do that? Why does she care? That’s a waste of her time. Her brown curls were pulled tight in a severe chignon. Never mind. She touched bow to strings, playing a fifth. God had never answered any of her prayers. She wet some absorbent cotton with alcohol and refreshed his face and neck. Two children, who had been caught in the jam-closet: ingratiating smiles, back of which lay doubt and fear.
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