"Jack," exclaimed the widow, starting up and drawing back the curtain. On the bench was set a quartern measure of gin, a crust of bread, and a slice of cheese. Then he rallied, smiling a little. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. It seems only yesterday that she was running down the Avenue, all hair and legs. Gerald watched her perambulations in silence, his heart wrung. There was little fighting spirit here.
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