” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. "I am one. It isn’t what I have been but what I am. Marina had retired to bed, drinking wine slowly, sleeping when she was not drinking. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. ‘But I don’t trust you an inch.
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