He lowered his voice a little and leaned over towards her. He was nearly wincing. But you could have just as easily lost your womb in the Pestilence, and your life. “Does he know that I am involved with someone?” “Of course he knows. He returned, blue towel in hand. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen.
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