She was slowed down by the icy wind that punctuated itself in screams around houses and trees. On the way home he was still thoughtful. I should lose every scrap of independence—even my self-respect. Your boyfriend. Every inch of the house felt safe to her, small and welcoming. She slipped it calmly into her pocket. A little Madeira seemed to recover her enough to resume the discussion. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. I have fulfilled my part of our marriage contract.
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