up. ‘I’ve got to stay with him.’ But his skin was cold. So very cold, and something sticky and damp had soaked into my linen trousers. My boyfriend had bought them for me, on a rare trip to London. You can tell a lot about a woman by the clothes she wears, he had said. I pulled my cardigan closed as his presence infiltrated my brain. But not quick enough to hide the yellowing bruises on my collarbone. I should have worn my polo neck, but I wasn’t expecting visitors . . . My thoughts were interrupted
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