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The wick spluttered; the flame leaned from the burner, gave a skip and went out. Oduromenai Grieving; perhaps. Suddenly she thought of Maurice Jourdain. She saw him standing in the field path. She heard him say "Talk to me. I'm alive. I'm here. I'll listen. I'll never misunderstand." She saw his worn eyelids; his narrow, yellowish teeth. Supposing he was dead
"'Archet', Sikelikai, to pentheos, archet' Moisai, adones hai pukinoisin oduramenai poti phullois." The wind picked at the pane. Through her thick tweed coat she could feel the air of the room soak like cold water to her skin. She curved her aching hands over the hot globe of the lamp. Oduromenai. Mourning? No. You thought of black crape, bunched up weepers, red faces.
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