She spied him sitting on his armless black couch, his feet splayed as he stared at his television blankly. Then he looked across at Mrs Sindlesham. “I am already so hungry that I shall begin on the petit pains. So often as she had herself manipulated a dagger, she could not mistake the shape that pressured across her chest, or the sharp point that dug below her bosom. The place pulsed with music too loud to converse above. He had more time for her. But there was, it insisted, no mobility in his face, no movement, nothing about him that warmed. She used to play violin, you know.
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