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There was something of the mausoleum about poor Alma, the grim skeleton of her everyday personality finding but icy warmth beneath the ivory, lace, and the seldom-warn black broadcloth skirt that was pinned over two inches at the waistline to hold it up. "Did you think I'd forgotten you? I haven't but it's been such a rush." She sat down on a chair edge, pressing a bony hand to her brow.
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