She had intended to be quietly dignified, but he was in a smouldering rage from the beginning, and began by assuming, which alone was more than flesh and blood could stand, that the insurrection was over and that she was coming home submissively. "Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it. She crooked her finger. He wished he had the time to solve this riddle, for it was a riddle, and four-square besides. Sweet sixteen year old Shari, who never once figured out the morning sleep hangovers she suffered monthly.
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