"Winifred Wood will never marry, unless the grave can give up its dead. He hesitated. ‘What did you do with the portrait then? Not that I suppose it is much use any longer. “You’re exactly as I remember you!” “Forever fifteen, remember?” She stepped closer to him into the light of the television screen. Their faces were masks of abject horror, sunken and shriveled, their cheekbones protruding. And we are not traders looking at equivalents.
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