So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. Pearls in the dawn light, flashing and burning! "You don't like your island?" "I hate it!… But, there!"—weariness edging in. She crept into the living room and turned off the set, adjusting Cathy’s blanket which had fallen to the carpeted floor. The day was unseasonably humid and dark, a thick fog having descended over manicured lawns.
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