Their faces were masks of abject horror, sunken and shriveled, their cheekbones protruding. And I do not know you. Why didn’t I die? Why does God hate me so? Why does He not want me? I didn’t die because I’m weak, because I am cursed! I hate this poisoned world! But most of all. And how much I owe you, too, dearest Winifred, for your kindness and attention. “You are late,” she murmured. I have always hated it.
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