Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. His wife's portrait had been removed from the walls, and the place it had occupied was only to be known by the cord by which it had been suspended. Standing before a mirror set on a dresser between the windows, two hands frozen in the act of adjusting a wide-brimmed hat on her head, stood a lady in a dark riding habit, her startled features turned towards the door. Then he entered her passionately, riding her with exquisite precision.
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