“You will go and see her,” he begged. “Is that not rather a profitless speculation, my friend?” He seemed deaf to her interruption. An enormous poster almost covered one side of the wall—the poster. Already she missed all of her fine things, her linens and leather bound books. The door was opened for her by a weary-looking youth in a striped jacket several sizes too large for him. Hopefully. She succumbed to cancer of the breast at age forty-three, it was slow and wasting.
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