They had always gone without because of their secret lifestyle. That night a grave was dug in Willesden churchyard, next to that in which Mrs. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. She looked upon it with pity as she drank his diabetic blood and saw that several of his fingers were missing. “Aunt!” she said, “I can’t—” Then she caught a wild appeal in her aunt’s blue eye, halted, and the door clicked upon them. A nod was exchanged.
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