I will never wed you. Lucy vomited onto the floor at the sight of her mother dying, the black spots expanding across her corpse. She became aware of the modelling of his ear, of the muscles of his neck and the textures of the hair that came off his brow, the soft minute curve of eyelid that she could just see beyond his brow; she perceived all these familiar objects as though they were acutely beautiful things. Too easily roused emotions and too little passion. That her husband was not touching her anymore grew to be like a disease, something to be cured.
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