As she averted her gaze, a terrible idea crossed her. "You are alone?" said one of the spinsters—Prudence Jedson. His French is better than mine, so he knew exactly what he was handling. Any man might have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar places he loved. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them.
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