Too damned chickenhearted to confess to me he’d run off with the woman. The house became joyous again with the talk of babies and wedding festivities. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. My late husband, I mean. His energy began to slip away and she sank her teeth into his fat carotid artery below the piano wire, which had drawn blood from his neck.
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