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Veris had emphatically insisted that she would never marry, never wanted to, and if she wanted a cottage of her own, she would jolly well buy the land and move them out herself . . .
“Do you have your own children?” “No. Children are very troublesome things.”
They would not come. And what held them there was not love; and at this point, after so long, it was barely fear. Something was dead inside of them, something had been killed, and buried deep, under their gleaming ribs. Now they had an existence rather than a life.
