If Ray left the house, it would be easy. He closed the door. With trembling fingers she opened the post-bag. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. Next to the executioner stood his wife—the former Mrs. She would take the items with her; bury the items and her bloodstained clothes in one of the many sinkholes in the huge landfill/garbage dump on the south side of town.
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