They had cried a little, both. Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. ‘But it is idiot. “How are you feeling?” She asked. She caught her breath, and her eyes were lit with a sudden terror. When the carpenter a moment afterwards stretched out his hand, scarcely knowing whether he was alive or dead, he found himself alone. ‘I have justice. G'night, kids.
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