The entrance of the house 85 was grand, and upon entering she was immediately greeted by John’s mother, a tall, thin woman quite a few years older than Cathy Beck. She was breathing hard, dragging for air, half in fright and half because the sudden effort had used up what little air she had managed to draw so briefly. “Who took care of you after she died?” “My father. “Sooner or later, John, it will come to that. He sat with folded arms and knitted brows, thinking intently.
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