He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. Perhaps I've been mad all these years; I don't know. He strangled the infant, which slipped out of his hands and screamed. They fell into step again. And, in spite of the boy's resistance, he plunged his hands into his pockets, and drew forth the miniature. "There won't be much left for you," he said. He kissed her ardently. Blank it was, except for a gate near the bridgehead. She could not run, her limbs were frozen.
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