Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. He had brought the shrubs down from Syria, and, strangely enough, they had prospered. No one will ever love you as I love you now. He had looked at it before without comprehension. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach.
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