“Dear John,” she whispered. A knot of three policemen in conflict with her staggered toward Ann Veronica’s attendants and distracted their attention. She helped Jack to sit down, and dragged the jacket off him, lifting his shirt to expose the gash that had sliced across his side. He’s the handle of life for you. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground.
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