He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. She had fallen asleep on the wooden bed, uncaring of lice or bedbugs. She brought her face to his chest, turning her head sideways so he would not notice her elongated canines. He was shifting to reach his own weapon, which had fallen in between the pews at the back. They were childless and servantless, and they had reduced simple living to the finest of fine arts.
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