She sat in a chair in the parlour and regarded the darkening sky through the small casement window. “Promise me that you’ll never tell another living soul, John. "Oh, nothing—nothing," returned Mrs. Horrible memories of things seen beneath the microscope of the baser forms of life crawled across her mind and set her shuddering with imagined irritations. The discussion wandered, and was punctuated with bread and butter. The sky periodically pummeled her with hail pellets as she would pass through the deserted intersections.
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