She cursed Satan and screamed at the heavens, praying to Mary frantically. You see, I’m selfish. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. . The young man opposite was straining his ears to listen to their conversation. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. She could smell him almost as strongly as she could the new paint on the fire escape walls, along with the wool suit and the weird polyester smell of his wet umbrella.
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