Its cavernous expanses equaled the upstairs of the house. “Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. She had refused to eat human beings when she had first learned her fate. We Spurlocks take our medicine, standing. We already had a place to mislay blame. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. Not then.
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