She ignored it until it repeated itself. "No friend like the mother, for the babby knows no other. She used his own gun against him, a method that was occasionally cleaner than slitting throats when she got it right. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. For nearly thirty years he had lived here in contented loneliness; then youth had to come and fill him with discontent. She hid behind a mirage of piety, just as I do.
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