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Unformatted text preview: nly she was sitting up. Every bit of goodwill she felt for her husband had done its usual evaporation act. He was the same tiresome and impossible man who had wrecked her life. That was true. It was true that she loved him. It was true that the ghost had come through. "Ryan, don't you feel things in that house? Don't you sense things? It isn't over, it's just begun! We have to find Rowan!" "I'm going to come get you in the morning," he said. He was furious. Her anger had drawn out his anger. But he was struggling. "I want to come up there and drive you back home." "OK, Ryan," she said. "I wish you would." She heard the plea in her own voice, the plea that meant surrender. She was only glad that she'd had the courage to say the little bit she had about "the man," that for the record, she had spoken her piece, and he could argue with her, and beat her down, and criticize her to death later on, perhaps. Tomorrow. "Gifford, Gifford, Gifford . . ." he sang softly....
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10