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Unformatted text preview: he lace coverlet, small insignificant expressionless face against the big ruffled pillow. Michael sitting there, smoking a cigarette. "There isn't any oxygen in here, is there?" "No, dear, they got on my case already about that." He took another drag defiantly, and then crushed it out in the glass ashtray on the bedside table. His voice was beautifully low and soft, rubbed smooth by the tragedy. In the corner opposite sat young Magdalene Mayfair, and old Aunt Lily, both very still in straight-backed chairs. Magdalene was saying her rosary, and the amber beads glinted just a little as she slipped one bead more through her hand. Lily's eyes were closed. Others in the shadows. The beam of the bedside lamp fell directly on the face of Rowan Mayfair. As if it were a keylight for a camera. The unconscious woman seemed smaller than a small child. Urchin or angelic. Her hair was all swept back. Mona tried to find the old expression in her, the stamp of her personality. All gone. "I was playing music," Michael said, s...
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- Spring '10