Only an undermaid I was then. Part of her even believed that her mother would have wanted her to stop feeling guilty and to be happy. In mailing the tales he had not enclosed return postage or the equivalent in money. Not these twenty year. The streets were deserted as they drove past familiar sites. She would buy a Greyhound ticket to New Orleans, make a kill or two, then travel into Texas and seduce some wandering man into taking her to Mexico, feast upon him once they got there. “I was glad you did not send it back again,” he said. She reads novels—and history—and all sorts of things.
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